


Fragments

by what_a_dork_fish



Series: Cheriks [21]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angst, Animal Transformation, Babysitting, Body Dysphoria, Canon Disabled Character, Cat Erik, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Conspiracy, Erik has no idea how humans work but that's okay he'll learn, Erik is a Sweetheart, Fluff, Government Entities With Grudges, M/M, Protective Raven, Trans Charles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 16:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16498739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: He's like a kaleidoscope or stained glass; he may be made of fragments, but he remains beautiful. Charles thinks so, at least.Or, Erik is lost and scared and ends up being Charles' cat. Everyone except Erik thinks this is very, very weird.





	1. Cat

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry but I've been having bad brain issues and this story is flowing so well and it's making me feel better so I'll be working on this for a while I swear I'll do other stuff soon.

His memories are mostly fragments.

He remembers his mother’s scent. He remembers the sound of her purr. He remembers the smells and sounds of his littermates. He remembers a feeling of being safe.

He remembers utter terror.

They took him away from his family. They did things to him, painful things. He cried and bit and scratched but they still hurt him. He didn’t know how, but somehow—somehow—they trapped him like this.

He huddles beside a garbage can in an alley, shivering furiously. He doesn’t have fur anymore, just this thin stuff that smells harsh and scrapes his skin. It’s a cold night. He’s scared. It took hours and hours and hours to find this place, lurching away from humans, always away, until he collapsed here. The ground is cold and wet. It soaks right through this thin stuff and chills his body. He mewls in despair, then hushes himself. He is not a kitten anymore. He mustn’t make kitten noises.

He wants his mama.

There’s a noise. He freezes. Footsteps, human, slow. He’s almost deaf now, with his shriveled ears, but he can tell that much. The human passes the alley without pause.

He breathes a little easier. His nose still works, thank goodness, otherwise he’d be dead by now. The garbage is nearly overwhelming, but he can still smell that human. They smelled bad.

Dawn comes, and slowly, more humans begin to walk up and down the street. He huddles tighter, heart pounding with fear, and does not make any sound. The garbage can is big, which he is grateful for; not much of him shows beyond it. And there are more near it, to hide him even better.

His eyes close. He’s exhausted. Not even fear can keep him awake for longer than two days and two nights.

“Hey, dude, you okay?”

His eyes snap open. There is a human in front of him, looking concerned. They smell fine, but they are too close. He hisses, but it doesn’t sound right; he tries to slither sideways and falls over, biting back a yowl as his entire body seizes up.

“Whoa! You—OW!”

He lets go of the hand that had tried to grab him, and hisses again, and the human stands quickly and backs away, holding their bitten hand and staring in fear. He can’t breathe, he’s in so much pain, but he manages a growl. They run. He focuses on trying to relax, breathing carefully and stretching trembling limbs, inch by inch.

Someone else approaches. Now that he’s awake, and anger is replacing the fear, he growls at them too, baring his teeth, and they back away.

It feels like decades before the pain ends, leaving him full of a dull ache. Something makes an odd noise, and, at the same time, his insides do a strange gurgle. How odd. But he lifts his head, and sees that more humans are trying to sneak up on him. They don’t smell good. Their pheromones are harsh and angry.

He scrambles to his paws—no, his body doesn’t want to walk properly, he falls over again with a yowl, missing his tail more than ever. The humans encircle him. One grabs his forelimb, arm, whatever, and he tries to whip around and bit them, but his neck won’t bend right. They drag him up, but his legs don’t work. His back paws scrabble on the hard ground, muscles still hurting but not connected to his brain the right way, and his hisses, trying to claw the hand off his arm. His claws are short and ragged and barely scratch the human’s skin.

“Hey, calm down, buddy,” one of the humans snaps, and his head wrenches around to stare at them. “We just wanna know your name.”

Name? He doesn’t have a name. He can barely understand speech. He knows that the tone is at odds with the words, though. He coughs, but he doesn’t know how to make sounds like they do. So he reverts to a low growl, and fighting the human’s grip.

“God, he’s a stupid one,” someone sneers.

“Put the cuffs on him,” another human says, annoyed. “We’ll take him to the hospital. Crazy druggies are their problem, not ours.”

He hears a rattling sound. His heads snaps in that direction. A human has taken two metal circles on a short length of chain off their belt and is approaching him.

He doesn’t think because he doesn’t have to. He fights as hard as he can, biting, hitting, getting his legs to work enough to kick. The humans yell and kick back. He doesn’t care. He only stops fighting when something small pinches him on the forelimb—and pain blazes from that spot.

He mewls and drops, shaking, pawing at the thing on his arm. It’s attached by a wire to a thing one of the humans is carrying. They grab him, turn him on his stomach, yank his arms behind his back—

“What the hell are you doing?! Stop that!”

Amazingly, the humans do. They freeze in place, still gripping him, but no longer moving, barely breathing. Then they let go of him. They all straighten. The pain-thing turns off and falls to the ground. Then the humans walk away, silently.

He lays there, panting, for what feels like ages. A new human has arrived; they smell… kind. They smell like mama. His eyes open and he squints up at the human.

They are short. No—they are sitting down. They are in a chair with wheels. They do not get too close, for which he is grateful. Slowly, he pushes himself up on his side.

“Are you alright?” they ask, and their face is so kind, he almost mewls. But they’re human. They will hurt him. It is inevitable.

He growls, but his heart isn’t in it.

They frown, but not angrily. They pick up the box in their lap and open it, and the smell of cooked chicken hits him right in the face. His insides twist again and his mouth waters, and then somehow he has struggled up into a sitting position, eyes on the chicken. The human smiles.

“It’s not much,” they say, “But it’s what I could get on short notice. Do you know the way to the shelter?”

He stares at the human blankly. They look sad now. “Oh dear,” they murmur. “You’re really not alright.” They hesitate, then hold out the box. He grabs the chicken in his paws and scoots back, leaning on the wall as he eats, tearing flesh off bone, then cracking the bones too to get to the marrow. He eats quickly, because what if the human takes it away? He could save it—but nowhere is safe. So he must eat it.

The human is still sitting there, staring. When he is done eating, he leans forward and sniffs hopefully, wondering if there’s any chicken scraps he missed. Maybe the human has more food.

“Um.” The human is frowning again. “Hmm. I can’t just leave you here… How about we go to the shelter? I know one that offers mental health services. Can you stand?”

He frowns, but the word ‘shelter’ stirs a vague feeling of safety. He wants that. So he tries very hard to stand. He can’t stand on all fours, his body doesn’t like that and keeps tipping over; so he rears up on his hind legs, and is surprised at how easy it is to balance. It’s not nearly as easy as it was before they hurt him, but it’s workable. His muscles are still hurting, and he has to brace his feet very firmly because he doesn’t have a tail, but he doesn’t fall over. He feels an odd sort of… triumph.

The human smiles. “Well done! I don’t have enough money to go on a bus, so we’ll have to go on foot. Come on.” They turn, and wheel towards the street. He blinks, but when they pause and look back, he forces himself to take a step. He doesn’t want to go towards the street. There are humans there. They will hurt him. But he doesn’t think this one will let him be hurt. So he takes a step, and then another, and then another. Balancing gets easier as he goes. His brain is getting used to this strange form of movement. He looks up, and the human is still smiling. He has the urge to purr, but he suppresses it.

“Good! It’s not far, I promise.”

He follows more confidently.

He knows he’s not very graceful. He knows he’s slow. Before, he could walk a fence rail, and he could run fast; but now he has to focus very hard on not overbalancing. His feet feel too big and too flat. But he knows if he tries to walk on his toes like normal, he will fall over.

The human keeps looking, to make sure he’s following. Other humans look once, and then don’t look again. He prefers the humans who don’t look. He doesn’t want to be reminded that he is Wrong.

A dog starts barking. He whirls, trying to find it—

“Maggie, no!”

The dog is large and muddy-colored, and he can tell from its barking that it knows what he is and wants to kill him. He doesn’t think; he grabs a pole and climbs it, perching on the top and clinging with all his might, growling as the dog stands on its hind legs and barks. Humans are staring. Someone laughs. The dog’s owner catches up to it and yanks it back, then looks up at him and says, “I’m so sorry! She’s just a puppy, I’m getting her trained, but I’m so sorry she scared you!”

He stares at them, surprised. He is so surprised, in fact, that he falls.

At least two people scream. He twists in midair and lands on all fours, then stands up and glares at the dog, who is still barking. He meant to do that.

The human in the chair is talking to the human clinging to the dog. The dog human glances at him, surprised, then nods, and drags their dog away. The human in the chair beckons, and he walks over, still bristling warily. His human tugs his sleeve and he deliberately turns his back. He sincerely wishes he had a tail.

They go a long way before they reach a building. He can’t read any of the signs on the doors, but his human reads one of them closely, then breathes out a sigh of relief and smiles up at him.

“They’re open, let’s go in,” they say, and roll forward. He follows, curious.

The building is warm inside, and the smells are nicer. There aren’t as many people, and he can smell food. He sniffs and locates the food-smells, but he doesn’t dare go through that door, because he and his human are being approached, and while this other human is smiling, they smell angry.

“Another stray?” they ask his human. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” his human replies, and he realizes they’re not smiling anymore. “He’s mute. I think he should talk to Sammy.”

“Sammy’s busy,” the angry human retorts.

“Sammy can speak for herself, thank you,” another human says, bustling up and frowning at the other. Then they smile at his human. “Hello, Charles.” The smile turns to him. “Hello, sir. Do you have a name?”

He frowns slightly. He does, but… but he can’t remember. So he shakes his head, a little stiffly. He doesn’t know how he knows how to do that and what it means, but it’s human enough for other humans to understand.

“Come this way, sir. We just need to ask some questions.” The human called Sammy walks away a few steps, then stops and turns. All three humans are looking at him. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t want to go further into the room. He can smell it now, a miasma of sadness, of irritation, of sickness. Not body-sick; head-sick. He backs away three slow steps.

His human reaches out and touches him.

He bolts.

He runs back the way he came, swerving through people, darting across streets and making cars slam on their brakes, falling into a rhythm of movement that feels so natural. He’s not chasing prey, he _is_ prey, but the feeling of running is good. He’s doing something. He’s not lost when he’s moving.

He ends up at the alley. The day is fading. He falls against the wall, slides down behind the garbage can. He hurts all over again, and he’s gasping for breath. But he’s safe, here. No one will ask him questions. No one will give him food and then lead him to humans who want to talk to him. As long as everyone leaves him alone, he’s safe.

~

The smell of chicken wakes him.

His eyes snap open, and his head rises. He curled up on his side on the ground and fell asleep, so now everything hurts; but he can smell chicken. His eyes don’t work as well in low light anymore, but there’s a light nearby, and he can see that it’s his human.

“Why did you run away?” his human asks, and they sound hurt. “Sammy’s nice. I made sure when I hired her. Is it because I touched you?”

He shakes his head, but his eyes are on the chicken. His human sighs and holds it out. He scrambles up on his forepaws and knees, but his right knee hits something sharp, and he falls over on his hip. His head lands on his human’s knee, and the shock of warmth through the thin stuff on their leg is amazing. He’s cold. He’s so unbelievably cold. He curls up against their legs, leaning on them heavily, trying to soak up as much heat as he can. Very slowly, they bend down and put the box in his hands. He just holds it for a moment, letting the warmth soak into his palms. Then he eats, missing his barbed tongue, but doing a good bit of damage without it. Then he sighs, and lets his head fall sideways against his human’s legs, and… starts purring.

“Oh,” his human breathes, in a tone of sudden understanding. “That’s why I can’t hear you. You’re… you’re a _cat_.”

He makes a sound of agreement.

“Okay. That’s very different. Hmm. Alright. Let’s go. We’ll go to my home. I probably have some cat food left.”

He stands, stiffly, and follows his human.

~

It is quite dark when they come to another building. They go in, and his human leads him down a dark hall to a door. They pull out a shiny, flat object, stick it in a shiny bump in the door, turn it, then open the door and roll in. He follows, and remembers to shut the door behind him.

“You need a shower, I think,” his human says, eyeing him thoughtfully. “And—oh, do you need the loo too?”

He frowns, but can’t stop shifting from foot to foot. Where’s the litterbox?

“Ah—litterbox. Do you need the litterbox?”

He nods, relieved that his human understands.

“Right,” his human says, “I have a feeling you’re new to this… I’ve never, um, I’ve never potty-trained anyone, but I hope… alright, just follow me.”

He does follow his human through a room that he would like to prowl, and down a short, narrow hall, and then his human stops at an open door and points. “The toi—the litterbox is the small round thing.”

He steps inside the room and goes to the small round thing. The large rectangular box looks more like a litterbox, but there’s no sand. He looks at the round thing again, doubtfully. How is one supposed to pee in such a small area?

“Lift the lid.” The human sounds self-conscious and a little nervous. He lifts the lid, startled at how sturdy it feels, and there is a bowl-shape under it, with water in is. He has a feeling he should not drink it, though he is very thirsty.

“You’re supposed to sit on it.”

He eyes the bowl with misgivings. It looks too small to sit on, although if he sits like his human he should be able to manage it. But he shouldn’t relieve himself in this confining material. It will be gross. So he tugs on it, and frowns when it doesn’t come off. It seems stuck. There is a button, and a zipper. So he undoes those, and it comes off much more easily.

Right. Sit on it. He can do that.

“I’ll, um, I’ll leave you to it,” his human stammers, and quickly wheels away. He frowns, resists the urge to follow, and instead sits on the bowl.

It’s definitely not as easy as a litterbox. He has a profound respect for those who have mastered the art of using this thing.

A fragment of memory comes to him when he is done. He remembers watching a human do this, making sure they are safe and comfortable while they use their litterbox. That human had taken some of the white stuff on the roll beside the bowl and wiped their body with it. So he does the same, though he almost falls off the bowl. The memory fragment tells him that when he stands, he should close the lid and press the handle.

He does those things, then remembers that the thin things that chafed him so are still around his feet. He kicks them off, smiling at the freedom (though he’s still cold) and walks out of the litter-room.

“Where are your trousers?!” his human yelps from the end of the hall, and when he looks at them they are looking in every direction except at him. Their face is very red. “Put them back on! You can’t walk around half naked!”

He frowns, but sighs, goes back into the litter-room, and pulls on the confining thin things. He makes sure they are buttoned and zipped, then walks out again. The human heaves a sigh of relief and looks at him, though their cheeks are still red.

“Okay,” they say. “I think you need a shower first. Um.” Dismay fills their face. “Do… do you know how to shower?” they ask timidly.

He shakes his head. The last time he was bathed, he endured being rubbed with smelly foam and then rinsed, but he hadn’t done any of that himself. A fragment arises; he watched a human shower, carefully monitoring them so they didn’t drown. He doesn’t remember what exactly they did in there, though.

“Oh dear.” The human takes a very deep breath and lets it out slowly, their face going very red again. “I guess I’ll have to teach you. Because I can’t have you being filthy all over my flat; I have enough trouble cleaning as it is.” They hesitate, then nod sharply. “Right. Turn the water on, and then off with your clothes.”

Learning to shower is very annoying. He doesn’t like it. There’s too much water, and his human insists that he rub every inch of himself with that scratchy square of fabric. There is still smelly foam. He accepts its use with bad grace. His human actually laughs at his miserable expression.

“Just like a real cat,” they murmur, and help him clean the top of his head.

He doesn’t understand why his human won’t look at the part of him where his back legs meet his torso. They look at the rest of him, mostly so they can point to places and tell him to rub there with the cloth. But they refuse to even glance at that part of him. He supposes he must be deformed. He wasn’t ever “fixed”—maybe that’s the problem. Maybe all humans are “fixed”, but in a different way, and his genitals are therefore disgusting to his human.

He doesn’t like that thought.

“Um, and now you should—“ Finally, his human glances at his genitals. Their face twists up in discomfort, and they look up. Erik tries to scowl, but he’s feeling a very strange emotion. It might be… shame.

“Oh. Oh, please, don’t be sad.” They take hold of his hand with both of theirs and squeeze very gently, looking very upset. “What’s wrong? Do you… do you not like me looking? I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

That’s not the problem, but it’s close enough. If his ears were normal they’d be low, and he wants to curl up and hide somewhere small. He doesn’t want his human to be disgusted or uncomfortable with him.

He hates showers.

His human decides he’s clean enough, and lets him rinse off, and then hands him a towel. He dries himself rather awkwardly, then wraps the towel around his waist at his human’s direction, and follows them out of the litter-room. They go to the room that smells most like food. His human fetches a bowl and a can, while he prowls the perimeter, and opens the can. His head turns at the smell of chicken, and he licks his lips and creeps up behind his human.

They turn, and jump in their chair, clutching their chest. “You scared me!” they scold. “Please make a little more noise!”

He cocks his head, confused. Slowly he reaches out and taps the pepper grinder on the counter.

His human grabs his arm. “Absolutely _not_! That is not what I meant and you know it!” Their anger is like a kitten’s, and he feels his face stretch oddly. Maybe he’s smiling. He can’t help it, he leans down and nuzzles his human’s neck, purring, because that always wins him scratches and coos and forgiveness. According to the fragments, at least.

Maybe that’s not acceptable with this human, because they squeak and jerk away from him. He blinks and pulls back, his smile easing away. He’s confused again. His human is very red, and is not looking at him, letting go of his arm to grab the bowl of cat food and press it against his chest until he grabs it with his hands.

“Just eat that,” his human mutters, and quickly wheels away.

He starts to follow, then realizes that his human probably does not want to be followed. So he sits down on the floor and eats his food.

When he’s done, he doesn’t know what to do. So he puts the bowl down on the floor, stretches, and stands. His towel falls off. He snatches it up and quickly rewraps it. He doesn’t want his human to be disgusted again.

“I found some clothes that might fit you,” his human announces, emerging from the hall. He walks over immediately, then stops a little ways away. He wants to curl up in his human’s lap, but he’s too big now. Also, if he’s not mistaken... clothes are the things that chafe. He bares one fang uncertainly as his human picks up a piece of fabric in their lap and shakes it out. The shape of it means it’s meant to go over his torso. His human drapes it over their arm, and picks up a white bit of fabric, smaller and a different shape. “Here, these go on first.”

He sidles closer, and takes the small thing in one hand. He doesn’t know how to put it on, though. There’s only three openings, so he doesn’t think it goes on his torso…

“It goes on your legs. All the way up.”

Ah, this is to cover his deformity. He feels sad, but he knows he must. So he turns around so his human won’t have to see, and lets the towel fall. The white thing chafes horribly as well, but it’s more comfortable than just the… what had his human called them? Trousers? Yes. He turns when he is safely covered, and accepts the new pair of trousers. He puts them on, too. His balance is a lot easier now, he notes in surprise. The thing that goes on his torso is last, and—

It’s soft.

He stares down at it. When it’s on, he strokes the fabric. It feels like being pet, and that is soothing; and the thing is warm and soft, like a tight mat of clean fur. He’s smiling again. Before he can think, he leans down and nuzzles his human again, purring. They’re warm. They smell nice. They fed him and gave him clean clothes. He will follow them to death and beyond.

They pet his head, very gently. He arches, purring harder, and their other hand pets his back. He likes being pet, he really does. He’s trying to climb into their lap without thinking, and they laugh, surprised.

“Okay, hold on, that won’t work. Come on.” They push him gently and he stops trying to fit, and follows them to a room full of soft places to lay on. They lever themselves up out of their chair on to the longest soft place and pat the space beside them. He climbs on to the soft place and lays as much of himself on their lap as he can, purring as they laugh. Their hands stroke his back and side, and he relaxes completely, closing his eyes and just basking in the sensations of being clean, fed, warm, and petted.

He feels like himself again. He feels like a cat.

~

“My name is Charles.”

He nods and keeps kneading the blanket rucked up under him. He’d knead his human, but he’s not sure they will allow it.

“Do you have a preference for names?” his human—Charles asks.

He shakes his head.

“I’ll just choose one then, shall I?”

He turns over on his back, paws up, and looks at Charles expectantly. They smile, and rub his belly—

He attacks, catching their fingers with his teeth and wrapping his forelimbs around their arm, carefully keeping his claws away from their skin. They yelp, and try to yank back, but he just bites again. This is good play, good practice. Why is Charles so scared?

He stops and looks up at his human, making a questioning little chirrup. He didn’t hurt them; didn’t claw, didn’t bite so hard he broke the skin, didn’t catch anything sensitive. Why are they frozen, staring down at him with wide eyes, fear-stench pouring off them? Carefully, he licks the places where he bit, trying to apologize. His human unfreezes and yanks away, and then shoves him off their lap. He yowls in surprise and lands on all fours. Before he can even look up, his human is talking, low and fierce.

“ _No_. Do _not_ bite. _Ever_.”

He cocks his head to look up with one eye, and sees that Charles means it. So he slinks away, but only to the corner of the long soft place. He sits there, his back to Charles. He is not _ashamed_ , per se, but he does feel bad for scaring his human. He stares at the floor and wishes he were small again. He could easily creep under the chair if he was himself again.

“Erik,” Charles says suddenly. “Your name is Erik.”

He blinks, and thinks about that for a moment. Yes. He likes that. He likes that a lot. He looks over his shoulder, and sees that Charles is staring at him, frowning. But it’s not an angry frown anymore. It’s a sad frown.

He—Erik, he has a name now, he should use it—Erik turns, crawls over, and sits closer to Charles, wrapping his forelimbs around his knees.

“Erik,” he says, and Charles’ eyes widen. It is an effort, and his throat hurts, and the sound is raspy, but he manages. “Charles. Erik, Charles.” He grins, triumphant.

Charles reaches out and strokes his head, scratching behind his ear. “You’re amazing,” they whisper. And they smile.

~

Sleeping arrangements are tough to figure out. Erik wants on the bed. Charles goes red and nervous and says no. Erik doesn’t want to make them nervous—but he wants on the bed. He wants to cuddle up to Charles for warmth. He’s too big to wrap around Charles’ head, which is the warmest spot, but surely Charles will let him sleep next to them.

Charles banishes him to the foot of the bed. Erik accepts the compromise with bad grace, turning his back on them. He does trap their feet under him, though, as punishment. Charles just sighs.

They both fall asleep. But Erik wakes up only a few hours later. Carefully, not wishing to disturb Charles, he slides off the bed, and creeps out of the room to explore.

He goes through every room, circling them and sniffing at every interesting smell. He is tempted to mark some spots, but he has a feeling Charles will be upset. So he just smells everything, opening his eyes as wide as they will go to get as much light as possible. He prowls the big room with the soft places and tests every surface for comfort. He’s too big for most of them, but it’s important. He must know which are best for sleeping.

He needs to use the litterbox. He wonders if it will be loud enough to wake Charles. Probably not.

After he uses the litterbox (litterbowl?), he goes to the food-room, turns on the sink tap, and drinks from the stream of water, again missing his barbed tongue. But the water is good, and he drinks and drinks and drinks until the front of his shirt (Charles taught him the word) is absolutely soaked and his belly feels full. He turns off the tap and pads to the bedroom. His shirt is wet and he can’t groom himself properly, so he just takes it off and leaves it on the floor. He’s cold without it, though. He eyes the bed thoughtfully.

Unfortunately, Charles wakes up just as Erik is snuggling down under the blanket next to them.

“Hey! What’re you doing?!”

Erik scowls, but burrows under the blanket until he reaches the foot of the bed, grumbling grumpy cat noises. Charles lifts the blanket and lets in cold air; he hisses halfheartedly, and curls up tightly.

“Where’s your shirt?” Charles demands.

Erik jerks his head in the vague direction of the spot on the floor where he left his shirt, then settled down very deliberately and stared at Charles.

They sigh and drop the blanket again. “Stay there, Erik.”

He doesn’t listen.

The next morning, his back is pressed against Charles’ side and he is purring as they splutter in indignation. When Charles starts to repeat most of their protests, Erik turns over and wraps his arm around them, nuzzling their side and kneading their opposite hip. They abruptly stop talking. And then they pet him, and he arches into the touch, happy as anything.

“You’re insufferable,” Charles whispers, but there’s such a fondness to their tone. He likes it.

But Charles has to go away. They have to get showered (Erik is shoved back and the door is closed in his face when he tries to follow, so he sits outside the bathroom and scowls and hopes Charles doesn’t drown), and then they have to get dressed (Erik thinks Charles should wear blue but Charles wants to wear brown), and then they have to eat (Erik doesn’t understand why they think _plants_ are good food, but they’re adamant that it’s healthy). And then when these rituals are completed, they go to the door, and tell Erik sternly, “You have to stay. You’ll get in trouble if you leave.”

Erik meows in annoyance and walks forward, but Charles reaches out and pushes him back. “Stay.” And Charles leaves and locks the door behind them.

Erik is full of righteous indignation. Locked in! Alone! Such injustice! It would serve Charles right if he got in trouble, unable to follow them and roam and maybe catch some birds—

But people might try to talk to him if he leaves. And the old fear of being taken home by some other human stirs in his chest.

So he tears the blanket and pillows and cushions off the long soft place and makes a nest under the eating-table, growling and grumbling. Then he sleeps.

He wakes up to prowl and inspect the place a second time, but there’s nothing new. He’s _bored_. He needs to _do_ something besides sleep.

He doesn’t have claws anymore, so he can’t sharpen them on anything. His teeth aren’t very sharp, so he can’t chew anything to pieces. He could fling Charles’ clothes around the room, but that’s no fun if he can’t shed on them.

His eyes land on the lovely red curtains over one window.

After he destroys the curtains, he’s still bored. So he grabs a fake turkey off a shelf and tears it to bits. Then he wanders to the food-room and goes through all the cupboards, trying to find something to play with. The last cupboard smells… so good… He stares at the contents, already mesmerized. Which one is it? Which one is the good smell? He begins knocking things over, trying to find the good smell, and then finally his hand closes on a poorly-sealed box. He takes it down, opens it, and sticks his entire face in it.

It’s _amazing_.

And that’s how Charles finds him, rolling around on the food-room floor, covered in catnip and absolutely blissful. He doesn’t even notice Charles is there until a sharp “Erik! What are you doing?!” snaps through the air.

He squirms around on his back until he can see Charles, and he blinks slowly, before rolling up on to all fours and crawling unsteadily over to Charles. He falls against their legs and purrs, rubbing his cheek on their knees.

“You monster!” Charles gasps, as they see the carnage he has wrought. “This is going to take _forever_ to clean up! _And_ you’re going to need another shower!”

Erik doesn’t care. He’s just so happy right now.

At least, he doesn’t care until he looks up and sees the dismay on Charles’ face. Then he starts to feel bad, through the fog of bliss. He tugs on Charles’ trouser leg and make an apologetic meow.

After a moment of silence, they bend down and hug him. He nuzzles their face and purrs, wrapping his hands gently around Charles’ arm and snuggling close. He’d groom them, but he’s not sure they would like that. So he breathes in their scent and wonders idly if they like his smell as much as he likes theirs.


	2. Man

The problem with cats, Charles thinks philosophically, is that they are absolute fucking chaos.

Erik (who is distressingly handsome for a cat-man) is still laying on the kitchen floor, covered in catnip and grinning at nothing. Charles shakes his head at the sight, and gets on with trying to clean up. Mostly this involves sweeping up the biggest chunks of torn-up Fall decorations (thank goodness they were all cheap and he wasn’t attached to them), vacuuming the smaller pieces, and trying to untangle the curtains. They’re not actually dirty, but they have large spots where he suspects Erik has chewed on them.

He rescues the cushions, pillows, and blanket from under the dining table, and sets them to rights on the sofa. Then he sweeps up most of the catnip. Erik is in the direct middle of the floor, the fucker, so it’s rather hard to maneuver around him. Finally Charles just shoves him across the linoleum with the broom, and he doesn’t fight. He actually purrs and smiles at Charles. Asshole.

Charles pushes Erik around on the floor some more to get to the cupboards, and he doesn’t seem to mind. He could help, but he probably doesn’t know how. Cats are annoying roommates.

But cats are also good for hugging. Erik seemed quite happy to let Charles hug him, and he had been very insistent in staying close to Charles last night. He was probably a cuddlebug as well as a freeloading asshole.

Charles can’t help blushing, remembering how Erik had done the slow-blink and purred for him. If he were human, he could ascribe human emotions to him, like gratefulness; but it was more likely that Erik had just felt comfortable enough to let down his guard a little. That was how Charles’ kitty-baby had been.

He frowns and wipes his eyes on his wrist. It’s been several months and he still can’t let go of kitty-baby. Kitty-baby had a name, Jemma, but he’d just called her kitty-baby most of the time. She was something for him to love and hold and take care of. She was his baby.

Gone, now. Eleven years old and gone. He should have thrown the catnip out when he buried her.

Charles’ eyes drift to Erik, who appears to be asleep on the floor. Well… maybe it was a good thing he hadn’t thrown it out. Think how much damage Erik could’ve done if he hadn’t gotten into it. That makes Charles smile. Maybe Erik can be his new kitty-baby.

Erik sneezes and wakes himself up, his head popping up and his face surprised. Charles laughs. Erik stares at him, and there is genuine bafflement on his face. Charles decides that Erik is too silly to be kitty-baby’s replacement.

“Come here, Erik,” he chuckles, bending down and holding out his arms. Erik heaves himself up and crawls over, bumping his head against Charles’ hand before rearing up and scooting forward to lean against Charles. His arms slide between Charles’ sides and the chair, and his hands clench in Charles’ shirt. Charles himself hugs Erik close and pretends he isn’t flattered by how Erik purrs and buries his nose in the crook of his neck. He could get used to this.

~

He will never get used to this.

First of all, Erik didn’t actually get the hang of showering. Charles really doesn’t want to help him again (the first time had been embarrassing enough), but when Erik walks out of the bathroom five minutes after he went in, scowling and wet but with green bits of catnip in his hair still, Charles braces himself and snaps, “Back into the shower, lad. You’re not clean yet.”

Erik growls, but it’s like his heart isn’t in it, and he reluctantly slinks back into the bathroom. Charles follows, though he’s dreading this immensely. Erik doesn’t seem to mind being chaperoned, but Charles really, _really_ hopes he can learn to do this on his own after today.

It goes better this time, because despite his reluctance, Erik does seem to grasp the basic principles of getting clean. And Charles is better at not looking, now. They get through the ordeal without either of them getting too upset.

Charles fights the urge to touch Erik any more than he has to. He’s beautiful. But he isn’t really human. He wouldn’t understand if Charles tried anything. So Charles will not try.

When Erik is finished and dry and wearing pajamas (Charles’ castoffs, so they’re a bit large in girth but quite short in length), Charles leads him out into the kitchen and makes dinner. Erik didn’t eat much for breakfast beyond all of Charles’ mini sausages, so he must be hungry. So Charles makes a lot of rice, and piles in lots of chicken, and some vegetables because surely Erik’s human stomach can digest them. The sauces are only added lightly; he’s not sure how sensitive Erik’s palate is. When the mess is done, he dumps two heaping servings into bowls, and hands one to Erik.

Erik stare at the bowl, baffled. Then he sits on the floor and shoves his face in the bowl, hooking bites with his tongue and swallowing without chewing. Charles bops the back of his head gently with his palm, and Erik looks up, frowning.

“Use a spoon,” Charles urges, handing him one. “Like this.” He picks up his own spoon, lifts a mouthful, and, feeling a bit silly with Erik watching so closely, puts it in his mouth and chews.

Erik very carefully grips the spoon the way Charles did, and lifts some rice. He still swallows without chewing. Charles sighs, but you can’t have everything, so he just accepts that that is how Erik eats.

Charles moves to the dining area and sets his bowl on the table. A slight clink is the only warning he has before Erik appears beside him, and sits in the chair to Charles’ right.

It’s a companionable silence. Erik can’t really talk very well, and Charles doesn’t know what would be interesting to him. But it’s nice to just sit together. Even if it is a bit weird how Erik has synchronized the rise and fall of his spoon with Charles.

When they’re done eating (Erik has three servings before he begins to even _look_ sated), Charles gets out his papers and laptop and gets to work on grading. Erik stands next to him for a moment, watching. Then he reaches over and delicately taps the ‘G’ on the laptop keyboard.

“Hey!” Charles protests, and Erik quickly withdraws his hand. “Don’t touch my laptop.”

Erik frowns, but keeps his hands at his sides. Until Charles puts down his pen and reaches for a different paper. When he turns back, the pen is not on the desk, but in Erik’s mouth, being chewed. It’s a metal barrel, so it doesn’t take any damage, but Charles is still annoyed.

“Don’t touch my pens, either!” he snaps, and snatches the pen away. “Do not touch anything on this desk!”

Erik scowls, but wanders away. Charles watches suspiciously, but all Erik does is flop down on the sofa, facing away from Charles. So he gets back to work.

His mobile rings an hour later, the sound of a schoolbell ringing, and Charles jumps as Erik yowls and falls off the sofa. Erik’s head pops into view again, and he stares incredulously as Charles lets out a burst of laughter and grabs his phone. It’s Raven. Of course it is. But Charles is still chuckling at Erik’s wounded pride, and answers it with a cheerful, “Good evening, Raven!”

“Hi.”

Her brusque tone kills his good mood instantly. “How are you?” he asks, with a little more caution.

“Bad. I need to stay with you for a few days.”

His blood runs cold. “Why?”

“Can’t tell you. I’m coming over in two days. Have to go. I love you.”

“I love you too, Raven. I—“

She hangs up.

He frowns and sets his phone down. Then he looks over at Erik, who looks wary now, sitting up on his knees.

“How am I going to explain you to her?” he murmurs, and bites his lip.

Erik stands, and walks over, carefully skirting the desk, to lean down and rub his cheek against Charles’. Charles cracks a tiny smile. Kitty-baby used to do that, too. The vet had said she was trying to combine their scents. It makes him happy, that Erik has only been here 24 hours, and he already sees Charles as part of his family.

Erik suddenly turns his head and licks Charles’ cheek.

Charles yelps and jerks back, but Erik follows, nuzzling his cheek and purring. Charles gives a nervous laugh. “Okay, okay, I get it, you like me,” he says, turning to look at Erik—but when he does, Erik’s mouth ends up pressed against his.

His lips are very warm and soft.

It’s Erik’s turn to yank back, staring down at Charles with wide eyes. Charles is blushing furiously, and looks away. Accidental kissing is _never_ okay. He knows that. He learned that lesson years ago.

Apparently Erik has never learned that lesson, because he inches closer and edges around Charles’ front until he can press his mouth against Charles’ again.

He’s ashamed to admit it, but Charles kisses back. He’s shaking because this is _wrong_ , and he needs to stop—Erik starts to purr again, and that jolts him to his senses. He pushes Erik away, hard, and when Erik frowns, he says, cursing his shaking voice, “Never again. _Never_.”

Erik stares, for an unnervingly long time. Then he walks away. Charles slumps and puts his head in his hands. Hopefully Erik obeys. Hopefully _Charles_ obeys.

He still doesn’t know how he’s going to explain to Raven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = Life, Love, and Happiness


	3. Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like... the most plot-point-packed chapter I've ever written. I'm sorry if that gets annoying.

Erik doesn’t think Charles will appreciate his trying to cuddle them that night. They didn’t like when Erik put his face on theirs, like he’s seen other humans do. Maybe they don’t like him in that way.

Putting his face on Charles’ had felt… nice. He’s never mated, but he’s been near females in heat, and the feelings their pheromones evoked are similar to those evoked by that touch. It’s strange. Maybe humans don’t have a specific mating season. Now that he thinks about it, didn’t mama once tell him that? She’d said it in such a scornful tone.

Erik curls up at the foot of Charles’ bed and thinks long and hard about this.

He does some prowling in the night, but not much. He’s thinking too hard. Strange thoughts about emotions and physical reactions and how, with his human eyes, the color of Charles’ eyes is stunning. He decides something that night.

He wants Charles for a mate.

But he has to be slow, and careful. They probably won’t like it if he tries to mount them. He supposes he had better act like one of those despicable little birdies that are so tasty. He should do something for Charles.

Bring them food? No, they have plenty of food. Dance? He doesn’t know how to dance. He doesn’t have bright plumage, or a big tail, or any other interesting features. Perhaps he could build them a home… but they have a home, here, safe and warm. Loud, because there are people in the same building, and stifling, because it’s in a city with too many other humans. Maybe he can find a place far away from the city, and build a house there, and then bring Charles there and ask them to be his mate. But he doesn’t know how to build… Sing. Yes. He can sing. He’s not sure Charles will like his song, since they’re human, but they might.

He settles in the bed, close to Charles, and falls asleep still arranging a song in his head.

He wakes up because Charles sighs heavily. He lifts his head and sees that they look resigned.

“You’re never going to give up, are you?” they ask.

He rubs his cheek on their shoulder, sharing their scent, and purrs. He thinks he has a song ready. It’s just a test though. Just to see if they like singing. But now is not the time. He must wait.

Charles pets his head for a moment, then sits up, and scoots out of bed. He rolls off the mattress too, and follows them to the bathroom. Like before, they shut the door in his face. He sits outside and waits. Should he sing now? They might not be able to hear him. He practices as he waits, and is pleased that this human voice, while not nearly as beautiful as his real voice, is still strong and deep. His throat begins to ache, but that’s fine. He must limber up and ready himself.

He pauses to let some of the ache ease, and the bathroom door opens. Charles is sitting there, looking annoyed.

“Are you trying to bring the building down?” they snap. “If you keep caterwauling like that, you’ll get us both thrown out.”

Erik is, understandably, taken aback. His singing is beautiful! People should be pleased to hear it! He scowls and stands, stalking to the room with the soft places and throwing himself down on the long one, his back to the room. Well. Charles doesn’t like singing. What _do_ they like? What makes them happy?

They laughed at Erik when he got into the catnip leaves… but they were also angry. They laughed when he fell down, but he doesn’t like falling, it’s undignified. They’re happy when he copies them. But that doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that would make them want to be his.

“Erik?” Charles is behind him. They pet his back, gently, soothingly, and he can’t help but arch into it. He likes being pet. “Erik, I’m sorry. But you can’t be loud like that. People here prefer quiet. I had to fight to keep kitty-baby, and she never got very loud. Erik?”

He doesn’t like that uncertain note in Charles’ voice. He turns over and lifts his paws. After a moment’s hesitation, Charles rubs his belly. He masters the urge to bite, barely, and relaxes as the warmth of Charles’ hand sinks into his shirt and skin. He’s purring again. Charles’ face relaxes, and they smile. That’s one thing that makes them happy; they like petting Erik, and they like when he purrs for them.

After a few minutes, though, it’s annoying. Erik twitches, and his purring trails off. Charles immediately takes their hand away.

“You’re right, that’s enough for this morning,” they sigh. “I’m going to be late if I don’t eat and pack up now.”

Erik watches as they wheel away, towards the food-room. He wants to play. Suddenly, he wants to play, and hunt, and maybe teach Charles how to properly eat a bird, none of this ridiculous using pointy sticks to cut it up. Would that make Charles happy? Learning to hunt and eat?

Erik rolls off the soft place and walks over to the food-room, where Charles is putting together a meal while they eat something else. Erik wants to help, but he doesn’t know how. Also he wants to share scent with Charles again. Claim them. Let everyone know that Charles is _his_.

But he doesn’t. He watches silently as Charles finishes preparing for the day. He follows them to the hall, and when they turn with a slight frown, he allows himself one brief press of his face against their neck, a single deep breath of their scent, before he turns and walks away.

“Be good, Erik,” Charles calls, and then they are gone.

Erik uses the litterbowl and curls up on the long soft place to think. He doesn’t think about _how_ to make Charles his. He thinks about what he’ll do to Charles when they are his mate.

He wants to touch Charles. He really does. Wants to touch all of him. This is very uncatlike, wanting to drag his hands over every inch of skin, wanting to make Charles laugh just by touching. But he doesn’t care. He wants to lick Charles, too, and not in a grooming way. Charles’ fingers tasted interesting, their cheek had been soft and tasted intriguing, and now he wonders what the rest of them tastes like too. And if they are male or female. He never really payed attention enough to figure it out. If they are female, he knows how he will mate with them; he doesn’t know how it will work with a male. But he wants to know.

There’s something wrong with his genitals. The long bit is getting hot and hard and starting to stick up. He stares at his crotch. He presses down on it with his palm.

The feeling that shudders through him at the touch completely ruins his thoughts and scares him into jumping up and walking in circles very quickly, trying to think of something, anything else. He doesn’t know if he likes that feeling, not at all. He must ignore it. He must think of something else.

Food. Right. Food. He needs to contribute to the food supply. How is he going to contribute? He’s too big and his eyes aren’t strong enough to hunt, and he can’t climb as fast as he used to be able to. He must think of some other way. But he can’t. All he knows is hunting, and he can’t.

Okay, fine. What else does Charles like? He looks around, shaking slightly with nerves. Charles likes when the den—house—den is clean. Erik looks around again. There is nothing that needs to be removed. He moves into the other rooms. No, there is nothing that needs to be taken away.

Fine. Kittens. Erik can care for kittens, he thinks. But he knows there are no kittens here.

His frantic pacing knocks a black stick thing off the low table in front of the soft place, and on his next pass he steps on it.

The black rectangle across the room suddenly blinks into life.

He jumps and sits down hard, startled. The rectangle is showing… something. A forest. Green leaves and brown trunks. It is a low view. There is something moving in the dead leaves on the ground. He leans forward, frowning in confusion.

A voice he doesn’t know suddenly speaks, and he jumps again. There’s no one here. He knows that. But the voice is coming from the rectangle, and it’s talking about something, some animal. It says something about what it eats.

The view changes. It’s a small animal. A prey animal. Erik licks his lips. The voice is still talking, but now he realizes that the sound is soft. The prey twitches, its little nose wiggling. Erik leans forward more.

Another change, looking at the little prey from a different angle. He frowns, ignoring the voice talking about the animal’s den. What is this strange thing, that shows moving pictures of animals that he wants to bring home to show his human?

A fragment of memory. This is a television. A TV. It’s a thing humans make to entertain themselves.

There’s a new animal being shown. It’s a bird. Very flashy, very… tasty. His mouth waters. But he can’t reach it. Televisions only show a picture. You can’t touch the things a television shows you.

He frowns, then curls up again. If he can’t do anything for Charles, he may as well do something for himself, and watch a television.

He falls asleep. And he sleeps for a very long time.

He wakes up because Charles approaches him. He raises his head and smiles sleepily; it’s getting easier to smile. Charles smiles back and pets his head softly.

“Hello, kitty,” they murmur. “Did you enjoy watching Animal Planet?”

He nods and nuzzles their palm, happy to be touched. Charles chuckles.

“Here. I got you a catnip toy, so you don’t have to roll around on the floor.” They take their hand away and open a hard, clear shell around a large and brightly-colored mouse thing. The smell of leaves fills the air, and he sits up quickly, nose twitching. Charles smiles and tosses the mouse a little ways away.

He’s up and after it in seconds, batting it around like any other prey, biting it hard and feeling something in it crackle. Delighted, he rolls over on his side and chews it, purring, as the crackle that sounds a little like breaking bones fills the air. Charles laughs and calls, “Come here, Erik. I have another toy for you, too.”

He looks up, and sees a red dot on the floor. He tenses. It moves slowly away from him. He drops the mouse and stalks after it, though he feels unbalanced on all fours like this. Then it pauses. He freezes, instincts telling him that the dot has seen him, though he’s pretty sure the dot is not actually prey.

It zips around in another direction and he chases it, scrambling a little with his too-long limbs, and he can hear laughing, but he doesn’t care. This is fun, and that’s what matters.

He trips and falls, banging his head on the corner of the table, and the dot immediately disappears. Charles hurries over, looking worried. “Erik, are you alright?”

He scowls as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. He’s fine, except Charles saw him fall, and that’s humiliating. Charles cups his chin in their hand and tilts his head a little, frowning slightly, then sighs and lets go. “Alright, I can’t see anything. I’m sorry. It just looked painful.” They scratch the top of his head and he purrs, mollified. Then he gets tired of the scratching, and gently removes their hand. They chuckle.

Dinner is meat and something that Charles calls “mashed potatoes”. Erik tries to eat like Charles does, with a fork, but it’s hard to master. Charles corrects him occasionally, but not all the time. Good. He has his pride.

Charles sits at their desk and is quiet as they do things. Erik lays on the soft place and falls asleep.

When he wakes up, Charles is turning off lights. He lifts his head, and Charles laughs softly.

“Come on, Erik. I suppose it’s no use trying to keep you out of the bed.”

He stretches first, then stands and pads down the hall after them to the bedroom. Charles puts on pajamas and slides into bed. Erik follows, draping himself over their feet. Everything is very quiet and calm and still, and he decides that, even if Charles never becomes his mate, this is good.

~

He wakes up again when he smells blood.

His head pops up. Charles is still sleeping, but the smell of blood is still there. There’s another smell with it, but it’s mostly blood, and the thought of Charles being injured is suddenly, viscerally terrifying. Erik sits up and sniffs, trying to pin down the location. It’s not their feet, it’s not their legs—there!

His nose is level with the place where their legs meet their torso. They’re bleeding there. He immediately crawls up the bed to nose Charles’ ear, butt his head against their shoulder, and when that doesn’t work, he meows very loudly. They wake up with a yelp, and almost hit him, but he ducks.

“Erik! What the hell!” Charles croaks, propping themselves up and breathing hard. “This better be important.”

Erik ducks under the blanket, pushing it back with his shoulders, and sets one hand on Charles’ side, meowing again, trying to bring attention to the wound. It’s staining their trousers. When they just stare at him blankly, he dips his head a little and meows again, more forcefully. Why aren’t they noticing? Doesn’t it hurt? What’s going on?

They notice, then. Their face goes red, and they sit up fully. “It’s fine, Erik. It’s fine. This—this is just something that happens.” They pat his face gently, but they’re not paying attention, wriggling towards their chair. “I’m not hurt.”

He gets out of the bed too, and follows them as they grab a pair of underwear and head to the bathroom. The door is not shut in his face. He pauses, surprised, then follows Charles, sitting down in the corner out of the way and watching worriedly.

Charles notices, and their face gets redder. Then they laugh, a little hysterically; Erik sits up straighter, alarmed. “No, it’s okay, Erik. I… You’re a cat. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.” They wriggle out of their trousers and underwear and sit on the litterbowl, tossing the stained clothes on their chair. They look sad, now. “It’s not even been a month,” they murmur, as they pull the stuff off the roll next to the litterbowl. Erik watches closely as they tend to their wound. It doesn’t look like it hurts them to touch it, but he’s still not sure. They don’t look like him between their legs. Is that what it looks like when a human is fixed? He looks into Charles’ face, trying to see any pain. They look up, and see him staring, and for a moment they look so sad.

“It’s fine,” they repeat in a whisper. Their eyes are shiny, and something comes out of their eye to slide down their cheek. Then they look down again, and finish affixing something to the inside of their underwear.

He doesn’t know why he does it, but he gets up on his knees and scoots over to press his nose against their neck. They don’t push him away. In fact, they cup their hand around the back of his neck, and press their cheek on his head.

They are both very still and quiet, their combined breathing the loudest thing in the bathroom.

Then Charles sighs and pushes him away gently. “I’m done now,” they tell him softly. He backs up, and fidgets as they put on their underwear again and get back in their chair. When they are done, he jumps to his feet and backs out of the bathroom, clearing the way for them, but also too worried to go far. They grab a cloth from the closet, soak it in water, and go back to the bedroom. Erik follows, because he’s still worried. He doesn’t even know why. He just knows that Charles is unhappy and that is bad. Charles cleans up the blood on the bed, then goes to the food room. They reach into a bottom cupboard and bring out a bottle, which they open. Erik, who has followed and is now hovering next to them, sneezes and backs away, grumbling. It smells bad.

Charles goes to the soft place and lies down on it, propped up at one end with pillows. There are more things sliding down their cheeks, as they drink the bottle. Erik sits on the floor at the opposite end, watching them.

“I’m a guy,” they whisper, so soft he can barely hear it. “I’m a guy. I’m a guy. It doesn’t matter what my body does. I’m a guy.”

Guy. That means ‘man’, yes? Erik is pretty sure it does. He leans his head on the edge of the soft place and watches Charles murmur to them—himself. The same rhythm, over and over.

“I’m a guy. My body is a liar. I’m a guy. My body is a liar. I’m a guy…”

When the bottle is empty, Charles hauls himself into his chair and goes back to bed. Erik follows.

~

The next day begins mostly the same. Erik sits outside the bathroom again—but Charles doesn’t close the door. It seems he’s given up caring. Erik is polite, though, and does not enter the room. He’s fairly sure Charles won’t drown, but it still makes his skin crawl, seeing his human surrounded by water.

Breakfast is cereal. Charles dumps flakes of dry stuff in a bowl and pours milk over them. Then he fills a bowl for Erik. Then he goes to the table and munches his cereal, looking tired and sad.

Erik sits on the floor and leans on his chair and eats, smiling as Charles reaches down to pet him.

“It’s hard to reconcile what you are,” Charles murmurs. “Are you human? Are you a cat? If I could read you, I’d know. Your mind is so fractured… everything’s in fragments. None of it fits right. And yet you understand speech, you have a personality, you are a _being_. Who broke you, Erik? Who did this to you?”

His throat tightens suddenly, and he ducks away from Charles, scooting under the table. He knows who did this. Their scents are branded into his memory. Their hard grips on his squirming body, later his thrashing limbs, it’s all still in his head, as is the rancid taste of their cruel glee. Oh, he knows. He knows.

Shaw.

He comes back to himself feeling cold. He’s shivering, hunched in on himself, arms wrapped around his legs. For a moment he doesn’t know where he is. He’s outside behind a garbage can—he’s in the corner of his cell—he’s in the back of a van—he’s under a table, safe, warm, where they can’t find him and his human is calling his name, his new name. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and looks up.

Charles has bent down and is peering at him, his face very confused and worried. Erik unknots slowly, skirting the bowl of cereal (miraculously untipped) and crawling over to let Charles pet him gently. It’s more for Charles’ benefit than Erik’s; he knows where he is, now, he knows he’s safe, and that’s good enough. But Charles wants to make sure he’s okay. And that’s fine.

He does get a bit irritated after a minute and shakes Charles off, but Charles doesn’t take offense. He sighs and continues looking at Erik with that worried face. “You broke for a minute there,” he murmurs. “Just. Gone completely. God, I’m sorry, Erik. I won’t bring it up again. Do you wanna watch Animal Planet again today? Okay. Come on out, kitty-baby, and—“ He freezes, and swallows hard, then continues in an only slightly shaky voice, “And I’ll get it set up for you.”

Erik picks up his bowl and crawls out from under the table.

Charles turns on the television and sets it to Animal Planet, and turns the volume low. “Just in case, ki—Erik. Sometimes the shows get loud.” Erik accepts this.

Charles goes away, after letting Erik share his scent for a moment. Erik goes and lays down on the soft place, chewing his mouse and watching dogs do silly things. He feels shaken and uncertain and unwell. But he’ll be fine. It’s fine. He rubs his face on the pillow. That’s what Charles had said, and he’s right. It’s fine.

Erik prowls and sleeps and plays and sleeps some more. He dislikes the soft drone of the television, especially when things get loud in bursts and it makes him twitch, but the pictures are interesting. He does not touch the desk, but he does examine the things on top very closely.

Then he gives in and takes the pen and hides it under one of the soft places. But really, that’s all.

He practices his gaits. He can’t move very fast on his hands and knees, and he can’t balance on fingers and toes very long before he falls over, but when he rears up on his hind legs he can go many speeds. He doesn’t test an all-out sprint because there’s not enough room, but he can go from an amble to a constrained run in a single leap, and that makes him happy.

He sleeps some more, on the bed, gloriously sprawled and purring as he rubs his head on the pillow Charles uses. The bed still smells faintly of blood, but he can ignore it. He thoroughly enjoys marking places filled with Charles’ scent, not because he wants to claim them for his own, but because he wants to linger. He wants to mix and mingle. He wants to know if Charles likes the smell of him as much as he likes the smell of Charles.

Even though his shriveled ears are nearly useless, the sound of the door opening sends him to his feet. He feels good now, much recovered from his earlier scare, and he wants to make sure Charles is okay, so he gets up and trots out of the bedroom on his hind feet, meowing to let Charles know where he is and also to ascertain if Charles is feeling better.

He stops dead in the hallway when he sees that the human in the room of soft places is not Charles.

They spot him, and frown. “Charles didn’t mention you,” they snap. “Who are you? Not his newest fuckbuddy, I hope.”

Erik doesn’t know what to do, but he doesn’t like this human’s tone. So he narrows his eyes and waits for them to make the next move.

“What, cat got your tongue?” the human sneers. Erik decides he doesn’t like them. “Whatev—Kurt, baby, no!” The human suddenly turns sharply and runs to a point in the room that Erik can’t see. He pads to the end of the hall, curious, and sees a small blue human on the floor, cheerfully chewing Erik’s mouse. The tall human takes the mouse away and drops it on the floor, picking up the small human and scolding it as they walk to one of the soft places.

Erik, incensed that they would just throw his toys around (conveniently forgetting that he does that all the time), stalks over to pick the toy up, wipe the human saliva off of it, and retreats to the food room, to protect the cache of food that this intruder will surely steal. He’s not sure if he should drive them out or not. They have a kitten, though. He thinks the small human is a kitten, at least.

If this human is caring for a kitten, then they must be female, a mother or aunt. He supposes they could be male, but he doesn’t think so. A fragment of memory slashes through his mind; Mama telling him fables that her mama told her, of the Old Days, when cats lived in prides in a hot land full of good hunting. Sometimes the mothers and grandmothers and sisters and aunts and female cousins formed groups, and raised all their babies together, with only one male at a time, who sometimes hunted and sometimes protected the kittens. Sometimes mothers would care for their kittens on their own. But it was always the same; until the kittens could protect themselves, the mothers spent most of their time caring for them, while the fathers slacked off. Mama disliked that. Erik had promised he would not slack off, if he ever had kittens.

They—she—sees Erik standing in the doorway, watching her and the kitten suspiciously, and scowls. “Stop frowning at us,” she snaps. “God, didn’t Charles tell you I’d be coming?”

Ah. She knows Charles, and has a prior arrangement with him. Surely she can’t be Charles’ mate. Wouldn’t Charles have told Erik? Or maybe humans don’t like talking about their mates. No matter what it is, she expects an answer, so Erik shakes his head.

“Ugh.” She glares back, also suspicious, until her kitten coos and she returns her attention to it. Erik sits down on the floor, and waits.

After a while, the human looks up at Erik again and demands, “So, what, you’re just going to stare at me until Charles comes home?”

Erik nods.

“Creep,” she mutters, but then her kitten sees Erik. Its eyes go very wide, and it squirms in her lap, reaching for Erik. He almost leaves his post, suddenly swamped by a need to inspect the kitten, but he doesn’t dare move. The human fumbles her baby—

And then suddenly, with a pop, it vanishes from her hands and reappears in front of Erik.

He springs to his feet faster than if he’d been sprayed with water, backing away, one paw raised to bat at the kitten if it gets too close. He runs into the counter behind him.

Another pop, and the kitten vanishes from the floor. At the same time, Erik feels a hand tug on the back of his shirt. He whirls, and smacks the kitten’s clumsy hand away, hissing as he backs up again. The kitten starts crying.

And then suddenly something hits his ankle and his legs are swept out from under him. He twists and lands on knees and forearms rather than his back, and rolls away just before the human’s fist lands right where his head had been. He curls his legs and kicks out, hitting her side, sending her rolling the opposite way. The kitten screams and cries. Erik scrambles to his feet, balancing on his toes, watching every twitch as the human rises too, her eyes blazing with anger.

Just before she can attack, Charles appears in the doorway.

Erik’s eyes automatically go to him, but he wrenches his attention away, just as the human charges. He grabs her arms and twists sharply, sending her tumbling away even as he slips in the opposite direction. But now his back is in the corner—there’s nowhere to run. He crooks his fingers, wishing he had claws, and prepares for another attack, heart pounding.

“Raven, stop it!”

The human turns her head, and Erik takes the opening, kicking her in the stomach before fleeing out of the food room, to the soft place, where he has more room to maneuver.

“Erik!” Charles’ voice is furious, and Erik freezes, half-turned to face the challenger. “Get back here!”

He turns all the way, to see that Charles has sided with the other human. They are both glaring, she murderous, he merely furious. Erik tries to remind himself that this is Charles, Charles fed him, Charles bathed him, Charles saved his life—

But Charles has sided with the human. He is no better than the humans who looked the other way when Shaw hurt Erik. Erik backs away, growling, until he reaches the window.

“Don’t you dare,” Charles snaps, and something in Erik’s head pings. It’s the sound of metal striking metal, and suddenly he can’t move. His fear and anger surge, and he fights the thing in his head, but it’s a ringing now, blocking everything, until he can’t hear, can’t see, can’t _think_. There is nothing but ringing and the sensation of being encased in ice.

He doesn’t know how long he’s trapped like that. He just knows that when he comes back to himself, he’s in the bedroom, and the door is closed.

He turns to stare at the door, shivering. What was that? Was it Charles? Did… did Charles do something to his head? He doesn’t like that thought. He doesn’t like that at all.

He looks around for somewhere to hide. The closet. The closet is small and dark. He tucks himself in there, in the corner, and shivers.

Why are his eyes burning? Why is his face wet? He doesn’t know, but he does know he doesn’t like being locked in, alone, with two enemies waiting for him. There’s a window here, too, though. He could climb out the window. He could disappear into the night. Charles would never find him again. Maybe he could find a new family.

His chest heaves. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want a new family. He wants Charles to send the enemy away, and her kitten, and let it just be the two of them again, forever and ever, no one else.

A long time passes before the bedroom door opens again. Erik tenses.

“Erik?” Charles sounds tired now. “Please come here.”

No. Erik curls up tighter. His need for reassurance is battling his instincts to stay small and hidden until the danger passes, since he has no way to fight or flee. He shivers harder.

“Erik?” The squeak of wheels as Charles enters the room. There’s a note of fear in his voice, now. Erik flinches, and hides his face.

The closet door opens, and his head snaps up.

Charles is there, and he looks so unhappy and tired. Then he sees Erik’s face, and he bites his lip, becoming distressed. “Erik. Kitty-baby.” He holds out his arms. Erik trembles and fights for all of three seconds, then surges forward to rub against Charles’ legs, thrust his head under Charles’ hand, wish he was smaller so he could climb into Charles’ lap and be safe. He feels like a kitten again, scared and confused, and he needs reassurance.

“Oh, kitty-baby,” Charles breathes, stroking Erik gently. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Raven hurt you because she thought you were going to hurt her baby. She’s protective of Kurt. That’s why she hit you. She won’t do it again, I promise. It’s okay, kitty-baby.”

It takes another few seconds of pets and murmuring before Erik feels better. Then he stands and follows Charles out of the room.

The human, Raven, is sitting on the sofa, cuddling her kitten. She looks up and narrows her eyes at Erik, but does not move. The kitten sees Erik and reaches for him, making grumpy noses. Erik immediately freezes, wondering if Charles would be okay with him hiding in the bedroom again until the kitten goes away.

“It’s fine, Erik,” Charles sighs. “He just wants to say hello.”

Erik gives him a doubtful look, but sidles a little closer, tense and ready to run.

The kitten pops from Raven’s arms and into the middle of the air.

Erik catches it automatically, alarmed, because he’s fairly sure this kitten isn’t able to land on its feet, but he doesn’t know how to hold it at arm’s length, so he brings it in close to his chest, trying to hold it so it doesn’t flop out of his grip. It giggles and grabs the front of his shirt, cooing. He stands rigid and awkward, and decides that human kittens are _not at all_ the same as cat kittens.

Raven walks over, but when he shifts his arms in an attempt to give the kitten to her, she scowls and grabs his wrist. “You’re holding him wrong,” she snaps, and forcibly rearranges Erik’s arms. The kitten squeals happily and jams its thumb in its mouth. Only now does Erik realize that it must get its blueness from Raven, who is also quite blue.

He doesn’t care about that. What he cares about is the fact that apparently the task of holding a kitten is punishment enough according to Raven. He stares down at the kitten, still baffled and unnerved—and the thing has the _nerve_ to snuggle down and fall asleep. He looks to Charles, alarmed, but Charles is smiling. Even Raven is struggling to hide a smirk.

Erik wonders if the world has gone mad and he’s the only sane creature left.

The kitten starts drooling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = Life, Love, and Happiness


	4. Man

Charles thinks it’s cute, how ginger Erik is with Kurt, but he can feel Raven’s suspicion and hair-trigger protective instincts. So he doesn’t say anything about how adorable it is that Erik is absolutely baffled by Kurt’s chewy, and how Erik is tentatively kneading Kurt’s tummy with his fingers. The baby is giggling around his chewy, and Erik is slowly being won over.

But Raven is still nervous. That’s understandable. From what she told Charles when he sent Erik away, the first meeting had not gone at all smoothly. It’s good that Kurt is so forgiving. It’s bad that Raven is not.

She watches Erik out of the corner of her eye, lips pressed together tight, as Charles finishes explaining how and why he brought Erik home. He knows she heard him, but her expression doesn’t change for a solid three minutes after he finishes talking.

“So,” she says, her tone hard but her voice quiet. “You don’t know what the fuck happened. But this guy is convinced he’s a cat.”

Charles sighed. “No. He _is_ a cat. Something’s happened to his body, to his brain; but he is absolutely feline. It’s the way his mind feels. It’s… shattered.” He gazes worriedly at Erik, who is now petting Kurt’s blue-black hair carefully and looks grudgingly charmed. Charles almost expects Erik to begin trying to groom Kurt at any moment. “He doesn’t fit together right. I think, if he did, he’d snap one way or another—completely cat, or completely human. Right now, he’s a sort of mix. He shows emotions that I don’t think most cats feel, and yet he doesn’t understand most of being human. I—“ Charles blushes so furiously his cheeks prickle. “I had to help him shower.”

Raven stares at Charles, and he finds himself squeaking, “It’s not what you think! He was filthy and I couldn’t have him trailing street-muck on everything, so I showed him how to clean himself. He got it on the first go, though.”

“I—“ Raven cuts herself off and jumps to her feet. Charles looks up in time to see Erik put his tongue in his mouth and look away with a cool, distant expression. Kurt’s hair is stuck up on one side.

“Give him back,” Raven snaps, striding over to Erik. He obediently stands—he was sitting in the corner—and hands Kurt back to Raven. Kurt giggles and chews, his eyes sleepy. Raven cuddles him close, then turns back to the sofa and walks over to sit down next to Charles again. Erik slides around the coffee table and circles to sit on the floor next to Charles. Raven glares at Erik, then fishes in her diaper bag until she finds the soft brush she uses for Kurt, and begins to gently brush down the saliva-slicked spots.

Erik leans forward to watch, apparently fascinated. Charles reaches down and starts to finger-comb Erik’s hair, starling him, but managing to undo some of the snarls.

Raven’s affectionate exasperation rolls over Charles’ mind. He can hear her thinking about how he’s obviously absolutely gone on Erik, whatever he is; Charles shoots her a glare, but she just hands him the brush. He rolls his eyes and starts brushing Erik’s hair.

Erik… suddenly melts against Charles’ knee, purring loudly and rubbing his face on Charles. Raven stares, taken aback; Kurt giggles; Charles keeps brushing, smiling. Even if Erik’s mind is all broken glass and metal shards, it can flush with warmth, the warmth of feeling safe.

And then Erik tries to climb in Charles’ lap, but he’s still too big, and ends up sliding off again. Charles catches him before he hits the floor, and it’s surprised out of him—“Whoa, careful! You’re gonna hit your head again, kitty-baby.”

Erik scowls and instead drapes his front half on Charles’ lap, the top of his head far too close to Charles’ stomach for comfort, but turned so his cheek rests on his arms, folded on Charles’ legs. Charles blushes, but sighs and keeps brushing. Raven is radiating alarm. He looks at her, annoyed again. “What?”

“Kitty-baby?” she repeats in a strangled voice, staring at him. “I thought Jemma was your kitty-baby.”

Erik twitches. Charles keeps brushing. “Well—well, yes, but—but I don’t think she would mind me calling Erik that.” He’s blushing again.

Raven shakes her head. “Whatever, Charles.” She hesitates, then sighs. “I suppose I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Charles looks up at her, surprised. “No! The guest room is fine, it’s a bit stuffy but—“

“Then where does he sleep?”

“Um.” Charles pets the back of Erik’s neck, making him purr louder. “Usually on my feet.”

“Usually.”

“Yes.”

Raven squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, then looks down at Kurt, who has fallen asleep. “Okay. This is just… weird.”

Erik tries to climb into Charles’ lap again.

~

It really shouldn’t surprise Charles that, the next morning, he catches Erik in the living room cuddling Kurt and brushing the baby’s hair gently. Kurt is happy, and the fragments of Erik’s mind are happy, and Raven is in the bathroom so she can’t see Erik being cute. Charles’ heart hurts as he sees Erik smiling. Would Erik be happy with a kitten of his own? Would he adore cuddling it and taking care of it?

How would he feel if Charles had a baby?

Charles’ lip trembles. He bites it hard, and goes to the kitchen. It’s just the glooms. He doesn’t have the time or energy for a baby, and if he does have one, he doesn’t want to let anyone else take over the majority of care. And anyway, in a few days he’ll relax and decide children aren’t for him. It’s always like this; his body gets desperate for a baby, then it gets angry and his brain floods him with hormones, and then he calms down and realizes that he’s being unreasonable.

He starts making scrambled eggs for breakfast.

Erik wanders into the kitchen, holding Kurt carefully in one arm, and chirrups as he comes over and starts brushing Charles’ hair. He smiles, reluctantly. He likes being cared for, but this isn’t really the time. So he gently pushes Erik’s hand away and tells him, “No, thank you, not right now. Maybe when I get home tonight.”

Erik frowns, but takes the brush away, and wanders out again. Charles sighs and finishes cooking eggs.

Raven comes out of the bathroom and takes over frying the sausage patties so Charles can shower. This is how they did it before she moved out. Charles bites his lip and pretends not to care.

He’s just turned on the water when he notices Erik in the bathroom corner, chewing his mouse. Charles shakes his head and grabs the washcloth.

Charles is almost done shampooing when Erik growls and Raven’s annoyed voice says, “Charles, your cat is being a creep.”

“Cats watch people shower all the time,” Charles replies. “And he’s not doing anything. He’s just sitting there.”

“It’s still creepy.”

“So remember to close the door when you go to the bathroom. It’s fine.” Charles rinses his hair.

“Fine.” Raven stomps away.

When Charles finishes showering, he hurries to dry, but he still gets a stain on the towel. His heart always lurches when that happens; a stain, a reminder, a harsh plucking of strings that hate being touched. But he puts on his underwear with the pad firmly situated, and shoos Erik out of the bathroom. Erik follows Charles to the bedroom, and before Charles can grab his rust-red cardigan with birds embroidered on it, Erik darts to the closet and brings his blue cardigan over. Charles frowns, but sighs and takes it. Then Erik gives him his blue pinstripe button-up, and then his black trousers, and when Charles is all dressed, Erik grins and bends down to nuzzle his neck again. Charles gives in to temptation and nuzzles back for a second, then leaves the bedroom, Erik padding along behind him.

Raven frowns at Charles and Erik, but finishes plating the toast. They all sit down and eat, and it is very quiet and calm.

When breakfast is done, Erik looks at Charles expectantly. Charles smiles. “Animal Planet?” he asks. Erik nods.

So Charles turns on the television and turns down the volume and Erik curls up on the sofa and watches something about birds. Charles gets ready to leave. Raven stops him in the entryway.

“Do you think it’s safe to leave Kurt with him?” she whispers, frowning. “I need to go do something and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“It’ll be alright,” Charles murmurs back. “He likes kittens. Babies. Whichever. Just tell him some basic instructions and they’ll be fine. I think he sleeps most of the day anyway.”

Raven’s mouth goes tight, but she nods. “If you say so. I’m just… I don’t like leaving Kurt alone.”

Charles takes her hand and squeezes gently. “I know. But they’ll be fine.” He takes a breath to say something else, but then he spots Erik standing and padding over, looking grumpy. Raven notices and moves out of the way; Charles is used to Erik’s insistence on rubbing his face on Charles’ neck, so he allows it patiently, but he catches a flare of confusion from Raven. She doesn’t say anything, though. Charles pats Erik’s head gently. “I’ll be back soon, Erik. Please don’t steal any more of my pens.”

Erik wrinkles his nose, but nods and goes back to the sofa, shoulders tight and head down a little. Charles suspects that, if he had a tail, it would be lashing grumpily. He sighs and looks up at Raven again. “Good luck, Raerae.”

She bends down and kisses his forehead. “Thank you, Charlie.”

Charles smiles, and leaves, tying his scarf tightly around his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = Life, Love, and Happiness


	5. cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two pages short, but I can't do anything longer than this.

Erik is surprised when Raven approaches him and says sharply, “Alright, dude, I need to leave for a few hours. You have to take care of Kurt. No biting, no licking, no hitting, no rough play, no letting him on high places, no feeding him cat food, no sharing toys. Give him some baby food at noon, and change his diaper. Do you know how to do that?”

Erik shakes his head.

“Fine. Get over here.”

Erik slides off the soft place and sits on the floor next to Raven as she sets Kurt on a blanket and takes a fluffy thing out of her bag. He watches in confusion as she takes the fluffy thing that was already on Kurt off, and wrinkles his nose as the stench of fecal matter hits him. Raven rolls the fluffy thing up and shoves it in a small bag, closing it and containing most of the smell. Erik looks at Kurt, and blinks. Kurt must not be fixed yet, either. Oh well. Raven shows Erik how to use a wipe to clean Kurt, who grumbles and wriggles but does not kick. Then she puts the clean fluffy thing—the diaper—on him, and fastens it, and picks her kitten up.

“Got it?” she asks Erik, narrowing her eyes at him. He nods. “Good. For lunch, give him half a jar of baby food. Any more and you risk making him sick.” She stares at him hard for a little longer. Then she nods. “Okay. That’s all. Be careful with my baby, or I’ll break your neck.” Then she hands him Kurt, stands, and walks quickly to the door.

Erik has barely scrambled to his feet, trying to keep Kurt in a mostly upright position, when she leaves and the lock clicks into place. He gapes at the door, suddenly swallowed by fear. Kurt begins to cry.

Erik sits on the soft place and rocks Kurt like he saw Raven do. The back and forth motion is… soothing. He thinks someone might have rocked him, too, when he was very small. Kurt calms down, sniffling and grumbling. Erik picks up the fur-groomer and gently uses it on Kurt’s hair. It likes to stick up every which way, but he gets it mostly smooth, and by the time he does, Kurt is sucking his thumb and no longer in danger of crying. Erik smiles, quite proud of himself. Then he curls up on the soft place with Kurt snuggled in his arms, and they watch Animal Planet together.

After a while, Kurt gets fussy, in that particular way that means he doesn’t want to be quiet anymore. Erik lays him on his floor blanket and gets Erik’s newest toy, the feathers on a string attached to a stick. He can’t do much with it because Kurt is too tiny to run, but he can tickle Kurt’s nose with it and then bounce it out of his reach, which amuses the kitten greatly, and soon he is squealing and giggling and kicking as he reaches. Erik lets him catch the feathers sometimes, but then he pulls it out of his tiny hands before Kurt can eat it. Kurt is like any other kitten; he needs to get his teeth working, and also he needs to explore what things are good to eat and what things are not. Feathers are not good, nor are they worth chewing.

Erik likes kittens, he really does. He just feels a little unprepared. Oh well, he’ll never get good if he doesn’t practice.

The day passes rather quickly. He amuses Kurt, feeds him, changes his diaper (the stench makes him gag), and naps with him. He wakes up because Kurt is squealing and Raven is cooing, “Hi, baby boy, I missed you. C’mere baby.” She extracts Kurt from Erik’s grip and walks away to the smaller soft place. Erik raises his head and watches with interest as she continues cooing and rocking her kitten, who grins and babbles up at his mama. It’s nice to see.

Erik lays his head down again and dozes off, comforted by the sound of a mama and her kitten. When Charles comes home, everything will be safe again. Erik’s pride—because Raven’s trust in him to care for her kitten and her closeness with Charles means she is part of the family—will be all together and tucked up safe in their den.

He hopes Charles won’t mind if Erik gets affectionate. He wants to be close to Charles tonight.

That night is good. Dinner is something called spaghetti, which is hard to swallow until he gives in and tries mashing it with his flat teeth. He keeps his mouth closed like Charles does, and finds that it’s a fairly easy motion, once his jaw gets used to it. The meatballs are especially lovely, and he sneaks some off Charles’ plate.

“Hey!” Charles protests, grabbing Erik’s arm as he reaches out to snatch another. “Stop it!”

Erik scowls, but withdraws and licks his fingers clean and doesn’t steal any more.

Charles has to do things at his desk. Erik brings a pillow over and sits on the floor next to him. Charles pets his head a couple times and gets on with work.

The evening is quiet and lovely and Erik is happy.

So he doesn’t know why he finds himself on top of the eating table, back arched to make himself look bigger, head jerking from side to side looking for the danger that he _knows_ is here. His family is staring and Charles is saying something, but Erik is too deep in terror to pay attention. His head is spinning, the fragments splintering against each other, and there’s a voice in his mind.

_Come outside. Come outside, Max. Do it. We won’t hurt you. Come outside_.

He covers his ears with his paws, rocking in a desperate attempt to calm down, squeezing his eyes shut. No. No! He won’t leave the den! The voice, the voice is evil, the voice is dangerous, the voice is from Before, the splinters are cracking into smaller and smaller pieces and he can’t breathe—

**_GET OUT OF HIM._ **

He gasps and collapses. There’s a ringing in his head again, metal on metal, and he shudders and jerks as the voices scream at each other in his head. One is Charles. One is the danger. He clings desperately to the Charles-voice, to who he is, to Erik, to the cat-man creature who is learning to be human—he will _not_ become the creature of pain and fury that he was before. He buries himself in thoughts of Charles, of Raven, of Kurt; thoughts of new foods, of sleeping safe and warm, of chewing catnip toys. He is Erik. He is Erik. He is Erik.

_MAX YOU LITTLE BRAT—_

**_HIS NAME IS ERIK. BACK OFF._ **

The screaming continues for an eternity, the ringing becoming a roar, a bell miles across never stilling in Erik’s head. And then suddenly—

It’s gone.

He stays tightly curled, shivering, paws over his ears. He’s gulping air like he hasn’t breathed in days. Someone touches his shoulder; he whips over to claw their face off, but they catch his paw. It’s Raven. She looks terrified. Erik cranes around her; Charles is behind her. Erik reaches, and Raven gets out of the way so Charles can take Erik’s paw.

“Is she gone?” Charles asks Erik, concern etching deep lines on his face. Erik nods, though he doesn’t really know who “she” is. “Good. Oh, Erik, I’m sorry.” He strokes Erik’s cheek with his free hand. “I should’ve guessed it would be mutants.”

That night, Erik can’t sleep for a long time. He fusses, and scrabbles at the blankets to make a nest, and wriggles, and can’t find a good way to lay. He keeps hearing noises and it makes him shudder.

Charles sits up. “Kitty-baby, neither of us are going to be able to sleep if you don’t stop,” he murmurs. “Come here. You can sleep up here tonight.”

Erik immediately scrambles up the bed and somehow gets under the blankets, pressing tight to Charles’ side. Charles pets him gently, and hums softly, and Erik stops fussing. He takes deep breaths of Charles’ scent, and slowly calms down. He sleeps.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, as usual, but he does not dare leave the bed. He needs to stay close to Charles. If the thing tries to break his mind again…

And if it goes for Charles? What then? What will he do?

He will find the thing that got in his head. He will find it, and he will kill it. Slowly. Painfully. No one gets to take away his mate. His arms tighten around Charles, as a protective fury rises in his stomach and chest. He will tear them to pieces if they try. He will rip their flesh from their bones. He will tear their organs apart. He will bite and break their spine. No one will ever hurt his mate as long as he has breath in his body.

No one.

~

He wakes to sunshine and Charles watching his face worriedly. He smiles. He is at peace, knowing what he will do if the thing attacks again. Charles smiles too, relieved, and presses his face against Erik’s forehead.

“Come on, kitty-baby,” he murmurs. “What should I wear today?”

Erik blinks. Then he grins, and rolls out of bed to choose Charles’ clothes.

He likes Charles in blue, but Charles doesn’t have many blue things. Erik scowls at the closet, then chooses a green shirt, a brown over-shirt (Charles calls them cardigans), and trousers that are lots of stripes of various shades of brown and green. Charles will almost be camouflaged, and that will be helpful with danger lurking about.

Charles smiles when Erik shows him his choices. “A lovely combination. Thank you, Erik.”

Erik sits in the corner of the litter-room as Charles showers, eyes half-closed, watching Charles clean himself through the curtain, which is mostly opaque but not quite. He knows Charles won’t drown, but he likes just being around Charles.

“Creep,” Raven mutters as she passes the litter-room door. Erik scowls at her back, but makes no noises.

Charles dries off and dresses, and Erik trots after him as he goes to the food-room. Raven is already there, cooking meat. Erik edges towards the meat, intrigued by the smell. Is it tasty? Is it spicy? He likes spicy things.

Raven whacks his sneaking paw with her fork. He glares, affronted, and walks away as if nothing happened. Charles smiles and touches his hand as he passes. Erik immediately turns and bends down to nuzzle Charles for a moment, before trotting to the soft room, grinning.

Kurt is sleepy, but he lets Erik pick him up and cuddle him. Erik wants more kittens. He wants to cuddle three kittens at once. He wants to play with kittens and teach them cat-games.

“Erik, breakfast is ready!”

Erik stands, still cradling Kurt, and goes to the eating-table.

Raven helps her kitten eat, humming. Charles shows Erik the proper way to eat oatmeal. It is safe and nice and Erik really wants to cuddle with Charles.

He tries to put his spoon down. It sticks to his palm.

He lifts his hand, staring at the spoon. It won’t drop. He doesn’t _think_ his hand is sticky. He tries to take it off with this other hand, and it does come off—but then it sticks to his fingertips. He grabs it with his teeth and it sticks to his lip.

Charles is staring at him, with something like amazement. Erik looks back, pleading. Why is his spoon sticking?!

Charles leans over and puts his spoon on Erik’s cheek. It sticks.

Raven notices, and gapes. “What the hell,” she whispers.

“A mutation,” Charles breathes, his eyes practically glowing as his lips curl into a beaming grin. “You have a mutation! I can feel it, in your head—it’s not telekinesis, that manifests differently—Raven, bring me the toaster, please!”

“Charles, you have work,” Raven protests, but she is already standing, as Erik looks between them, bewildered.

“Work can wait,” Charles retorts, plucking the spoons off of Erik’s face. “Okay, Erik, I want you to try something.” He sets the spoons at the far side of the table. “Concentrate on those.”

Still baffled, Erik frowns at the spoons. He finds himself concentrating, not on the spoons, but on something else…

Something large slams into his head and knocks him to the floor. He grabs it and lifts it, and sees that it is the toaster. Raven hurries over and helps him sit up, while Kurt squeals in alarm and Charles leans down to check Erik’s face, his hands gentle but insistent as he turns Erik’s head to look at the spot where the toaster hit him.

“Okay, this is probably a bad place to test,” Charles admits, as Erik flinches from his fingers when they touch the center of pain. “I have a testing room at the university—“

“Charles, you are not taking him to the university,” Raven snaps.

Charles scowls at her. “Why not? Hank can help me test his powers so we can find out—“

“Hank doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.” Raven’s face is very hard and angry. “How are you going to explain Erik to him and then keep him from blabbing? Also, what if it’s not safe to take him out? What if that telepath finds him again? Real smart, taking him out where he can be found.”

Charles goes from angry to petulant to worried throughout Raven’s reasoning. Then he sighs. “You’re right. You’re always right.”

“Hell yeah I am.” Raven cracks a tiny smile, which fades after a moment. Charles is looking worriedly at Erik, and Raven is looking worriedly at Charles, and Erik has no idea what’s going on, he just doesn’t like suddenly being aware of so many things around him.

He can’t even describe it. It’s like a huge cage, _inside the walls_ , but there are other cages attached, and more attached to those, until the whole building is a cage, and then the buildings all around are full of cages, and inside each cage, there are hundreds of small dots of… something, and he can feel the bodies around him, and he can trace the shape of Charles’ chair, and then he’s curled up on the floor, shivering, with Raven on one side and Charles on the other.

“Erik?”

He covers his face with his hands and gingerly explores the awareness.

It leaves a taste in the back of his throat. Metal. All kinds of metal. Copper, bronze, iron, steel. The taste is a plethora of tarnished and newly-oiled and polished and worn and new metal. It fills his mind with the sense of denseness, of cool surfaces, of something that changes slowly and only under great stress. As he explores these sensations, he loses some of his fear. It’s actually kind of… comforting. And useful. He can feel the movement of bodies, of objects; there is a knife in Raven’s left front pocket, and someone in the cage above is moving metal objects around in their food-room, and he can feel the lungs and blood and bodies around him, picking them out with the tiny freckles of iron in them.

He lowers his hands and sits up. Now that he knows what it is, he has better control. He stares at the toaster on the table, concentrates on it, and slowly, shakily, lifts it.

Only a few inches, and only for a few moments. But Charles’ face lights up, thrilled and amazed, and Raven gapes, as the toaster clunks down again.

“Metal,” Charles says, looking back at Erik. “You can sense and manipulate metal. Erik, that is _amazing_.”

Erik tries to smile, but he’s still confused and frightened. He doesn’t like this. He really doesn’t. But if Charles thinks it’s fine, then it must be.

“I’ll stay for the day,” Raven tells them both. “So Erik doesn’t break anything.”

Erik can’t hide how relieved he is, that he won’t be alone with the kitten. He thunks his head on Charles’ knee and tries to breathe more slowly.

“Thank you, Raven.” Charles strokes Erik’s hair, obviously reluctant to leave. “I’ll try to be home early.”

“Okay.” Raven raises her eyebrow. Charles sighs and takes his hand away. Erik lifts his head and is quite unhappy.

Charles does leave, and Erik paces, around and around the soft room, flinching when the things he is suddenly so aware of vibrate to his senses. He brushes against Charles’ desk and three pens and the stapler immediately skitter over and stick to his arm and hand, making him jump. He tries to pull them off, but they stick to his other hand, too, and he mewls in distress, which just makes them stick more firmly.

“Here, Erik.” Raven approaches and tugs the stapler off his palm, setting it down on the desk again. She’s obviously annoyed, but Erik isn’t so sure it’s with him. “Calm down. Getting upset will only make it worse. Don’t think about it, okay? Think about something other than… whatever’s going on in your head.”

Think about something else? Something other than the incessant humming, the purr of the world around him? A tall order, but he gives it a try, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to think of something, anything.

His default of Charles is enough. He immediately feels a modicum of relief, as the memory of Charles’ smiles blocks out some of the sounds-that-aren’t-sounds in his head. He remembers how this strange awareness had mapped every centimeter of Charles, how he can build a picture of Charles in his head and remember every detail, and how Charles’ voice had driven out the—

The fragments of his mind blast apart, as cold voices murmur in his memories and hard hands hold him down, and now he remembers words in those demonic voices.

_“Are you sure this will work?”_

_“Emma said it will.”_

_“And you trust her?”_

_“Azazel, I don’t trust anyone, not even you. But this little bastard—I’m going to shape him into something I **can** trust.”_

_“You’re disgusting, Shaw.”_

“Erik!”

He finds himself on the ground, pressed tight against the soft place, curled in on himself and shuddering so hard it’s like he’s going to shake himself to pieces. Nothing is real—the only real things are the ground he sits on and the back of the soft place, and even those sensations are bleeding into memories of a room with cold tile floors and hard concrete walls. He’s in two places at once, and the pieces of his mind are whirling in a storm of confusion and fear; the only thing he can focus on is the person in front of him, the blue person, blue and red and gold, kneeling on the floor in front of him. She does not exist in the world of cold and concrete. Does she exist at all?

She touches his shoulder, and he snaps into the room of soft places, where he is warm and clean and no one is hurting him. But there’s a great yawning hole in the back of his head, a pit of memories that poison his mind until he can barely breathe from fear. He finds himself reaching out, not with his hands, but with his mind, his awareness, grounding himself with the familiar shapes of cage, furniture, toaster, kitten, sister. He gulps air that tastes of books and warm food, not blood and anesthetic. The fragments ease together again, clicking softly into place, and blocking out the memories.

“Hey.” Raven puts her hand on his arm, peering at him worriedly. “Hey. You got lost for a second there. You back?”

Erik nods stiffly, the shivers slowing, but not stopping. Raven frowns, then says, “Stay here, I’ll be right back.” She stands and walks away, and Erik monitors her with his awareness, afraid she might vanish, but comforted by the strange solidity of her presence. She picks up Kurt, and then she comes back into Erik’s line of sight. Kurt reaches for Erik, making grumpy noises, and Raven sits down close by, letting her kitten tug on Erik’s sleeve.

Erik himself uncurls just enough to let Kurt wriggle into his lap and cling to him. Raven holds up the fur-groomer she uses for Kurt, and says, “Can I?”

Erik nods, and Raven starts brushing his hair. It’s soothing. Feels like Mama bathing him when there were thunderstorms, reminding him that he’s safe. Erik calms down, cradling Kurt and letting Raven brush his hair.

When he is completely okay again, Raven stops brushing, and simply sits with him. Everything is quiet and calm and safe, and Erik realizes that he isn’t scared of the awareness anymore.

~

It’s still very annoying, of course, having a strange hum in the back of his head, but he manages to push most of the annoyance out of the spotlight. He works on not actually thinking too hard on the awareness, and that helps—but it’s not really enough. Things don’t stick to him, but he’s still concerned other things might warp trying to get to him.

Raven teaches him to do some cooking basics and that helps occupy him. He still prefers to eat out of a bowl without a spoon or fork, but he supposes utensils are useful at times. He’s nervous around the stove, because of the fire, but Raven is sure to tell him basic fire safety and make him promise never to leave anything other than pots, pans, trays, and the things she calls “casserole dishes” on the stove or around it. He promises with a solemn nod.

Earlier, Raven had unearthed a colorful thing from the closet full of blankets, and now Kurt travels the den in it, giggling and gurgling. Raven calls it his walker. Kurt stomps into the food-room with the walker and wanders around, getting in his mama’s and Erik’s ways, and laughing when Raven chases him out. Erik smiles to see the kitten working his legs, getting ready to leave the den.

Lunch is lasagna, which Erik doesn’t understand, but he’s willing to taste it, especially since it’s spicy. Kurt gets mush. He seems happy enough with that, though.

After food, Raven takes a breath and says, “I’m gonna take Kurt for a walk. He needs some air. You should stay.”

Erik nods, though he is a little afraid to be alone.

“We’ll be back soon.”

He nods again.

Raven and Kurt leave, and Erik prowls the den, feeling nervous and yet somehow comforted by his new awareness. He’s restless, but scared. Maybe he can go prowl tonight. In the dark, with his new sense, he will be safe. He hopes.

He nods to himself. He will go out tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = Life, Love, and Happiness


	6. Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi it's been for-fucking-ever but here's the next chappy

“Uh…” Hank says.

“What?” Charles asks, annoyed, as he works on creating a chemical test that will assist in isolating mutated genes in a certain way so that they can be compared to other mutated genes, to better discern the type of mutation the person being compared has. The university is on the fence on how controversial this idea is, but with an unknown mutation in his own home, Charles has decided it is important.

“We’re working on this _now_?”

“Yes.”

“The suppressant—“

“You know it’s a bad idea to make a marketable suppressant. I’m in charge of this lab.” Charles thinks for a moment, then crosses out a line in his notes. “We don’t need to work on it every day, McCoy.”

Hank nods, and walks to his station. Charles can sense his disappointment. While Charles does feel a little twinge of guilt, he also feels sadness, that Hank is still obsessed with creating a mutation suppressant that works for longer than a few hours at a time. His peers are used to his form shifting when he gets excited about his experiments, and he’s very good at adjusting to himself, but he’s still convinced no one will love him in his bigger, bluer form.

Charles shakes his head and gets back on track. He really does need to pay attention.

His experiments are for naught today. He finally gives up and gets on with the research that’s being funded by the university. He doesn’t like it, has actively lobbied against this project, but the university—and the pharmaceutical company—are adamant that he “at least try”. He wishes he could get a lawyer to help him find a way to rule this as illegal and unethical, but no lawyer will work with him. Not after the fiasco with the Pentagon.

Raven says the government has a vendetta against him, but he doesn’t believe her. Maybe he should. She’s right about so many other things.

The time in the labs passes quietly. They don’t get very far, but that’s fine. Many experiments are in the observation stage, and no one in the labs will risk Charles’ wrath by contaminating results. He is quite happy with that.

When his turn for lunch comes, he sighs and reluctantly rolls on down to the cafeteria. He’s worried. Very worried. But he doesn’t want to call Raven, because he might be overheard; and if he texts her, there will be written evidence. It doesn’t feel right, being this paranoid—but he can’t risk those people who had hurt Erik finding him again.

He’s setting his tray on his designated table when Moira’s mind approaches the cafeteria. His heart sinks. Moira is CIA, as everyone knows, and after that disaster of a relationship (which actually had nothing to do with the Pentagon Incident) she seems to be unsure of whether she wants to be friends or not. Charles doesn’t know what he wants either, though. He’d like to remain friends… but her superiors see her as a convenient liaison, and because of the risk of losing her job (and possibly her life), Moira cannot go against their orders. So Charles resents everything about her presence. Not her, she’s a wonderful woman; but when she appears, so do complications.

Moira walks right over and does not return Charles’ smile. “Hello, Charles,” she says heavily, her hand falling on the back of the chair across from Charles and tightening as if to hold herself up. “May I sit?”

“Yes, of course.” Charles allows himself a small, worried frown, as Moira lowers herself heavily into the chair. She does not slump, though, clasping her hands on the table and remaining upright. Meeting her tired brown eyes, Charles wonders when she last had a proper sleep.

“Boss wants you to come investigate something,” Moira tells him frankly. “We’re getting reports of strange creatures being seen at night, and yesterday some corpses washed up on a riverbank in Virginia. Our seer has had concerning visions, as well.”

Charles fights a surge of anxiety. He can tell from Moira’s outer thoughts that this is all she can say, but he wants—needs—to ask questions. What kind of creatures? What kind of corpses? What did the seer see?

“When do you want me to come in?” he asks carefully.

“Now. Make a list of things you’ll need, we’ll send someone to your apartment to pack for you.”

Alarm courses through him. “No, no, my sister is visiting, you can’t just—“ he begins, but Moira interrupts.

“We know she is. Make the list.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = Life, Love, and Happiness


	7. Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi this is very short

Erik is still pacing when the door opens and a stranger enters the den.

He whips around and his fingers crook, his awareness scanning the stranger in a heartbeat. They have a gun. He doesn’t know how he knows what a gun is, but he knows the shape of it. Then they draw the gun and point it at Erik.

“Who the hell are you?” they demand.

Erik growls, and his unused vocal cords form words. “Get out.”

“I asked you a ques—“

“Get out!” Erik thrusts his hand out and the stranger practically flies out the open door. Erik jerks his hand to the side, and the door slams closed, with the stranger on the outside. A twist of his crooked fingers and the lock twists into an impassable mass.

There is a small explosion outside, and a scream of agony. Erik can feel what happened; the gun was warped too by his push, and when the stranger tried to fire it, it blew up. He’s shaking, and he feels tired to his bones. He did too much, too fast. But he can’t let down his guard.

More guns approach down the hall, as the scream fades into sobs. His heartbeat speeds up, as his fight response is triggered; he has nowhere to run, but he can defend the den to his death. He plants himself firmly in the entryway, and takes two deep breaths.

Gunfire, and the lock breaks—the door slams open. Erik doesn’t even have time to breathe before four guns fire at him. The bullets slow and stop an inch from his skin; he repels them back at the shooters, hitting one in the leg, two in the gut, and one right between the eyes. His awareness is tired, so he doesn’t kill that last one, but he breaks skin on all of them, so that they all flinch back.

And then Raven appears behind them in the doorway, looking wrathful, and as the intruders take one step, she attacks.

In a matter of seconds, all four are on the ground, groaning in pain. Raven walks right past them to plant herself beside Erik, hands on her hips as she surveys the intruders. She’s not even breathing hard.

“And _why_ is the CIA breaking into this apartment?” she demands harshly.

The intruder with the hurt leg manages to prop themselves up on one elbow and croak, “We’ve got orders, ma’am. Who the fuck is that?”

“None of your business. I swear to god, if Moira sent you and didn’t let Charles warn me I’ll fucking—“ she stops, as a strange trilling noise goes off, and reaches into her pocket to pull out a thing that she immediately taps with her thumb and puts to her ear. “Charles, tell me why there are five agents and a broken front door in your hallway,” she snaps.

Erik can’t hear what Raven hears, but he watches the intruders carefully. They’re pulling themselves into sitting positions, all of them hissing quietly in pain. Erik reaches out a hand and pulls their guns over so the weapons are at Erik’s feet instead of in their reach. They all stare at him, suspicious; he glares back.

Raven’s voice is suddenly tired as she says, “I’ll do the packing. Tell Moira to call off her dogs. You need a new door, they shot off the lock. Yeah. I know. Please don’t, I’ll do it, and then I’ll meet you at the bridge. Yes I am, you can’t stop me. Good bye, Charles.” She takes the thing from her ear and taps her thumb against it again before stuffing it back in her pocket. She turns to Erik and says, “Go to the kitchen and stay there. I’ll deal with this.”

Erik shifts his weight and growls uncertainly, which she seems to understand, because she replies, “Do it anyway.”

So Erik goes to the kitchen and crouches with his back to a corner, wrapping his arms around his knees and thinking dark thoughts about intruders and Raven not letting him hurt them again. Raven speaks in harsh tones to the intruders, then hurries around the den collecting things. She takes them into the bedroom and spends a long time in there. Erik decides to see what she is doing, and stands to creep down the hall and peer around the door frame.

Raven is folding clothes from Charles’ closet and dresser and putting them all in a box. Erik feels an all-over twitch. Box. Want sit in box. He doesn’t even know why he wants to sit in the box; the reason is just a fragmented memory-thought now. But it’s already mostly full.

Raven turns, catches sight of Erik, and jumps. “Jesus, Erik, don’t sneak up on me like that!” she snaps, tucking another cardigan in the box. Then she seems to realize what his frown means, because she explains, a little impatiently, “I’m packing for Charles. He had to go away, so I’m getting things ready to take them to him. You may _not_ come.”

If Erik had ears they would be low. He forces his rusty vocal cords to squeeze out one word: “Why?”

Raven stares at him for a moment. Then she says, slowly, “Because it’s dangerous. I’ll have someone come over to wait for a new door with you, and then you’ll go with them. No sense leaving you here alone for however many days.” She turns back to the box, counts the number of clothes in it, and then turns back to Erik and said, “It’ll be better to get you away from awkward questions, too. Lemme through, I have to pack some pads.”

Erik reluctantly stands aside and lets her pass him and go to the bathroom to gather some small packages. Then she returns to the bedroom. Finally, she takes some books and puts them in the box, then flips its top over and zips it shut. “Okay, done. I have a suitcase at Angel’s; I can just pick it up on the way, and send Darwin back.” Raven looked at Erik sharply, then said, “You be nice to Darwin when he comes. He’s pretty easy-going, but he’s not infinitely patient.”

Erick scowls. Raven scowls back. “Look, just--” she begins, but the trilling goes off again, and she pulls the rectangle out of her pocket. “Skype call,” she murmurs, surprised, and taps the thing with her thumb. “Hey, I thought you were on the way there.”

“I am,” says Charles’ voice, strange and far away and tired. Erik immediately trots over and peers at the rectangle. Raven turns, so Erik can see that the rectangle has a moving picture of Charles on it. Charles smiles, and Erik holds in a purr. “I just wanted to make sure everything was going alright.”

“Everything’s fine,” Raven answered. “I’m gonna ask Darwin to come over and babysit Erik while the door is replaced, then take him to Angel’s.”

Charles frowns, but nods. “Yes, that… that’s a good idea. Thank you, Raven.” Charles turns to look at Erik, and Erik frowns. There is something very scared and unhappy in Charles’ face, but he isn’t sure what it is. He wants to be with Charles, keep him safe. But at the same time he’s wary of anything that can scare Charles.

“Please be good, Erik,” Charles says, almost begging. “I know it’ll be strange for a bit, but Darwin, Angel, and Alex are good people. They’ll help you practice.”

Erik nods reluctantly. He doesn’t want to practice. He wants to tear out the fragments of himself that make up his mutation and hide them under a rock. But he can’t. So he listens as Charles and Raven finish an argument that Charles doesn’t put his heart into and watches Charles’ face. His eyes keep flickering up, out of sight, and it makes Erik itch to know what he’s looking at.

But he never gets a chance to ask, because Raven ends the conversation very abruptly with, “You know I’m going to win, just give it up. I’ll meet you at the bridge as soon as possible.”

Charles sighs heavily, but nods. “We’ll be back in a week,” he tells Erik—but Erik can see that he doesn’t believe that. Erik nods anyway. “Okay. See you soon.” And the screen changes, going to a picture of Raven and Kurt smiling. Raven sighs and tucks the phone in her pocket.

“Alright, Erik, I’ll wait just long enough for Darwin—he should get here pretty fast—and then I’m off.” She looks at Erik a little longer, mouth tight, brow furrowed. Erik stares back, perturbed and not bothering to hide it. Why try? He’s supposed to be a cat, but he isn’t sure there’s enough of his former self left for that—and this new self, he doesn’t know well enough to hide anything it does. So he waits, until Raven shakes her head and grabs the box, leading the way out of the bedroom.

The intruders are gone, but the door is still hanging open crookedly—and there is a person standing in the doorway, inspecting the shot-off lock. Raven relaxes as soon as she sees them.

“Darwin, thank god,” she sighs, propping the box on its end and going to hug the person. They grin and hug back.

“Hey, Raven. I would’ve knocked, but...” Darwin gestures to the door as Raven lets go and backs up. Then they look up, and see Erik hanging back warily. “Who’s this?”

“Darwin, this is Erik. He’s… Charles is taking care of him for a bit. Erik, this is Darwin. He’s a friend of Charles.”

Erik relaxes a little and creeps closer, looking Darwin over carefully. He looks nice enough, and he doesn’t seem frightened of Erik, just curious.

“Charles contacted you?” Raven asks Darwin.

“Yep. Right in the middle of taking some old ladies to a play. You know how he’s been experimenting with those “thought-packets” instead of words?” Darwin rubs his forehead and grins lopsidedly. “It works, but it gave me a hell of a headache.”

“I’ll yell at him on the way to—to the place.”

“You know you can say Pentagon in front of me, right?” Darwin asks in a lower tone, eyes kind and smile crooked. “Pretty much everyone in the circle knows by now.”

Raven scowls again. “Fucking Moira,” she mutters.

“Not Moira, actually. Hank. He was in the thick of it right along with Charles, and he’s shit at lying.” Darwin sees the mounting anger in Raven’s face at the same time Erik does, and the other immediately turns to Erik and asks, “So where did you come from? He didn’t take you in from that shelter he’s running, did he?”

Erik shakes his head, and manages to croak out, “Didn’t like it there,” before his throat gets tired and he has to stop talking. Maybe it’ll get easier the more he does it.

“Charles didn’t tell me why he took him in, but don’t be alarmed if he’s more friendly to the cats than you,” Raven tells Darwin, tension easing out of her shoulder and face. “Also his mutation just woke up, so be careful of that.”

Darwin looks at her with a thoughtful expression. “It’s not like you to speak for someone like that,” he says.

Raven flushes a darker blue and looks at Erik. Erik shrugs, unsure what is going on. Raven turns back to Darwin. “He only just learned to talk,” she says shortly. “Anyway, I’m gonna be late—talk to you later, Darwin.” She gives him another quick hug, then grabs the box and hurries out the door.

Erik slinks to a soft place and sits, drawing up his knees and wrapping his arms around his legs. He watches carefully as Darwin shakes his head, takes out a rectangle much like Raven’s, and dials a number.

“Hey, Piotr, it’s Darwin. Nah, the cats have calmed down—it’s Charles who needs some help. Yeah, there was an accident, his front door got bashed in and the lock was broken. Do you know anyone who could come out today? Thanks. Just a sec, let me find some paper and a pen.” Darwin looks around and spots the paper pad and pen that Charles leaves out on the coffee table. Erik has thought many times about chewing the pen, but he likes the metal ones better. Darwin walks over, sits in the smaller soft place, and grabs the paper and pen, balancing it all on one knee. “Okay, what’s the number?” A pause, as Darwin scribbles on the paper, and then he smiles and says, “Thanks, Piotr, you’ve been a big help. Oh, are you and Kitty coming to the birthday party? Excellent! See you then! Have a good day!” Darwin lowers the rectangle and pushes a button, then immediately begins to press more buttons. He looks up at Erik as he raises the rectangle to his ear, and tells him, “Won’t be long, I promise. Piotr knows _everyone_ in the repair business.”

Erik nods cautiously, and waits as Darwin talks to some other people. Evidently things work out in Darwin’s favor, because he looks satisfied as he turns off the rectangle and sets it down on his leg. Then he turns to Erik, and his satisfaction turns to a ruminative expression.

And then suddenly he says, “I know you don’t know me, and it’s gonna be way different at my place than here, so I’ll tell you some stuff right now. Stop me if you get bored.

“I’ve got two partners, Angel and Alex. Alex is, well, he’s a brooder, but he’s relaxed a lot in the past few years. Angel doesn’t like strangers, especially strange men, but Charles likes you, so she’ll probably let you in the house. Angel works nights and Alex works days, but my schedule is a little more flexible. That’s why I have the time to hang out with you and wait for repairs. What else...” Darwin rubs his chin, then nods firmly. “We have a house, with a few more rooms than here, so you won’t have to share with Kurt—Raven left him with us—but the cats might climb on you. Except Elvira. Elvira is Angel’s cat. Gorgeous little thing, she’s an Oriental Longhair and she’s very picky. Alex does most of the cooking, so I hope you’re alright with curries and coney dogs. I know Charles has a set bedtime, but we don’t, not with our varying hours. Hmm. That’s all I can think of.”

Erik nods gravely. He wonders if the cats will know him.

They sit in silence for a while. Erik’s eyes slide mostly shut, and he finds himself rocking, because it feels good to move even a teeny bit. Darwin gets up and goes to Charles’ desk and does something; Erik’s awareness is tired, but tells him that Darwin is only writing with the metal pen.

Erik’s eyes shut all the way and he finds himself falling asleep. He trusts Charles with his entire self, so he must trust Raven, who Charles loves greatly; and both Charles and Raven trust Darwin. So Erik will trust Darwin too. What an odd pride, though, where the members all seem to have different dens. He vaguely hears talking, Darwin’s voice and two others; but he is very tired. If Darwin yells, Erik will help him protect the den, but for now, he will drift.

“Hey, Erik.”

His eyes snap open and his head lifts. Darwin smiles and gestures to the doorway. “Door’s fixed. How about we go over to my place now? We’ll be in time for dinner.”

Erik nods, and stands.

“Do you have a suitcase or a bag or anything?” Darwin asks, then frowns when Erik shakes his head. “You don’t have—“ Then Darwin looks at Erik sharply, looking at his ill-fitting clothes. “Those are Charles’ clothes. You don’t have _anything_?”

Erik trots to his toy-corner and picks up the things Charles had gotten out for him. Carrying the toys close to his chest, he returns to Darwin, who still looks upset.

“Okay. I’ll get a bag for those. Charles has a _lot_ to answer for when this is done,” Darwin growls.

Erik doesn’t like the sound of that. But he has Darwin’s measure. If he tries to hurt Charles, Erik can take him down. And with that comforting thought, and a plastic bag carrying his toys, they leave the apartment, locking it behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments please I'm dying for acknowledgement

**Author's Note:**

> Comments = Life, Love, and Happiness


End file.
